JOAQUIN  MILLER 


SO  HERE  THEN  IS  A  LITTLE 
JOURNEY  TO  THE  HOME  OF 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 

By  ELBERT  HUBBARD 

ALSO  A  STUDY  OF  THE 
MAN  AND  HIS  WORK 

By  GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES 


TO  WHICH  IS  APPENDED  A  SLIGHT 
STUDY  OF  THE  MAN  WHO  WROTE 
THE  STUDY,  BY  FRA  ELBERTUS, 
WITH  SUNDRY  SELECTED  POEMS 
BY  THE  POET,  GIVING  A  GOODLY 
TASTE  OF  HIS  RARE  QUALITY 

DONE  INTO  A  BOOK  BY  THE  ROYCROFTERS  AT 
THEIR  SHOP  WHICH  IS  IN  EAST  AURORA,  N.  Y. 


m 


Copyright  1903 

by 
Elbert  Hubbard 


01   <T- 


In  men  whom  men  pronounce  as  ill, 

I  find  so  much  of  goodness  still ; 

In  men  whom  men  pronounce  divine, 

I  find  so  much  of  sin  and  blot ; 
I  hesitate  to  draw  the  line 

Between  the  two,  when  God  has  not. 

— Joaquin  Miller. 


M13782 


THE   LITTLE  JOURNEY 


THE   LITTLE  JOURNEY 

HE  wrote  the  greatest  poem  ever  written 
by  an  American :  He  lives  at  Oakland, 
"on  the  Mights,"  and  his  name  is 
Joaquin  Miller. 

We  took  the  street  car  to  the  end  of  the  line,  and 
the  conductor  pointed  to  the  road  that  led  up  the 
hillX*  lake  that  road  and  sail  on,"  he  said,  and 
smned  in  a  way  that  indicated  he  had  sprung  the 
allusion  before  and  was  pleased  with  it. 
We  followed  the  road  up  the  hillside.  The  day 
was  one  of  God's  own,  done  by  hand,  just  to  show 
what  He  could  do.  The  sun  was  warm  and  bright ; 
a  gentle  breeze,  cool  and  refreshing,  blew  in  with 
messages  from  the  sea. 

The  road  wound  around  the  hill,  and  led  upward 
by  a  gentle  rise — back  and  forth,  around  and 
back,  and  soon  we  saw  the  roadway  over  which 
we  had  passed,  a  hundred  feet  below,  with  gar 
dens  between.  Gardens  everywhere !  Gardens 
lined  off  with  boxwood  and  fenced  by  nodding 
roses.  Just  above  were  orange  and  acacia  trees, 


JOAQU1N  white  with  blossoms  that  showered  their  petals 
MILLER  upon  the  passer-by. 

And  still  we  climbed.  Up  and  up  by  that  gentle 
ascent,  up  and  up  and  up  we  went.  The  air  was 
full  of  perfume  and  drowsy  with  the  hum  of  bees. 
Birds  twittered  in  the  thick  foliage,  and  at  a  bend 
in  the  winding  road  we  saw  a  flock  of  quail  run 
ning  ahead  of  us,  and  suddenly  disappear  among 
the  masses  of  green. 

Sandy  was  interested  in  finding  out  where  the 
quail  had  gone;  Ben  mopped  his  forehead,  and 
with  coat  on  arm,  talked  of  the  Higher  Criticism, 
the  wonders  of  the  universe,  and  how  beauty  was 
free  for  all — his  preacher-habit  still  upon  him. 
Q  Brudder  and  I  turned  and  looked  down  upon  the 
panorama  spread  out  at  our  feet.  Here  was  color 
— gorgeous,  superb — the  lilac  of  the  wistaria 
winding  in  and  out  among  the  roses,  while  pale 
pink  azalias,  delicate,  esthetic  and  spiritual,  trusted 
to  our  power  of  discernment  to  single  them  out 
from  the  more  obtrusive  masses  of  magnolia  that 
everywhere  sprang  warm  and  voluptuous,  heavy 
with  perfume. 

2 


A  little  further  away  the  color  was  lost  in  masses  JOAQUIN 
of  green  that  pushed  off  into  a  dark  purple.  Spires  MILLER 
and  steeples,  and  giant  palms  lifting  their  fronded 
forms  in  air,  told  us  the  city  was  down  there,  five 
miles  away.  And  then  there  came  a  line  of  dark 
blue  that  wound  in  and  out,  and  marked  the  bay, 
where  little  play-ships  stood  in  the  offing — their 
prows  all  pointing  one  way.  Submerged  in  the 
blue  ether  across  the  bay  lay  the  city  of  San  Fran 
cisco — her  plots  and  her  schemes,  her  ambitions 
and  her  hot  desires,  her  tears  of  disappointment 
and  her  groans  and  griefs,  all  veiled  and  lost  be 
neath  the  translucent  purple-blue  coverlet  of  this 
lazy  summer  day. 

Over  to  the  left,  clinging  to  the  hillside,  was  Sau- 
salito,  replica  in  little  of  the  villages  that  line  the 
Bay  of  Naples.  There  at  Sausalito  lives  Bill  Fav- 
ille,  Prince  of  Architects,  making  much  monies, 
they  say,  over  in  the  city,  but  hiding  away  here 
on  the  hillside  in  a  cottage  of  three  rooms,  where 
Mrs.  Bill  escapes  the  servant-girl  question  and  the 
jealousies  of  the  Smart  Set  by  living  the  life  that 
is  genuine.  1  will  not  say,  "God  bless  Mr.  and 

3 


JOAQUIN  Mrs.  Bill,"  because  I  know  that  He  has  and  will. 
MILLER  C£  Just  beyond  Richardson's  Bay,  where  phantom 
ships  toss  on  the  tide  and  wait  for  cargoes  that 
never  come,  is  San  Raphael,  and  Dick  Hotaling's 
ranch — fairest  of  playthings — three  thousand  acres 
— belonging  to  Dick  and  his  friends,  where  plates 
are  always  placed  for  me  and  the  Cublet,  and 
chants  from  the  Good  Stuff  are  done  in  minor 
key  as  the  sun  goes  down  through  the  Golden 
Gate,  with  Dick's  permission. 
Beyond  is  Mt.  Tamalpias,  and  just  over  there  is 
Mt.  Diablo,  where  Preacher  Ben  says  I  should  go 
on  pious  errand  bent. 
Ben  is  a  joker. 

We  trudge  on  up  the  hill,  carrying  coats  and  hats  in 
hand.  The  air  grows  warmer,  the  flowers  are  even 
more  plentiful. 

We  have  been  walking  nearly  two  hours,  and 
must  have  come  five  miles.  The  road  skirts  through 
a  dense  mass  of  dwarfed  oak  that  covers  the 
driveway  as  the  elms  arch  Chapel  Street  in  New 
Haven,  only  more  so. 

"It  is  like  this,"  said  Preacher  Ben;  and  then  he 

4 


began  to  explain  to  me  the  Law  of  Paradox.   JOAQUIN 
Q  "The  collection  will  now  be  taken,"  came  a   MILLER 
deep  bass  voice  from  out  the  greeny  gloom  of  the 
close-growing  oaks. 

We  started,  looked,  and  there   on  a   seat  not 
twenty  feet  away  sat  the  Poet.  You  could  never 
mistake  him — he  looks  like  no  other  man  on  earth ; 
personality  surrounds  him  like  an  aura. 
We  stared. 

"  Come  here  and  sit  down,  you  rogues,"  called 
the  voice. 

The  Poet  did  not  arise — why  should  he  ?  We  had 
always  known  each  other,  though  we  had  never 
met  before.  We  shook  hands  and  Ben  and  I  took 
seats  on  the  rustic  bench  beside  him,  Brudder  lay 
on  the  grass  at  his  feet,  while  Sandy  renewed  his 
interest  in  quail. 

"  Here  I  Ve  been  waiting  an  hour,"  said  the  Poet, 
"  I  put  on  my  Sunday  clothes  and  came  down  to 
meet  you,  but  I  had  about  given  you  up.  Ben  said 
you  were  coming,  but  preachers  are  such  dam  liars 
— they  promise  Paradise  and  mansions  in  the  skies 
and  all  kinds  of  things  which  they  can  never  sup- 

5 


JOAQUIN  ply — I  was  afraid  that  you  were  not  coming!" 
MILLER  He  arose.  He  is  six  feet  high  to  an  inch,  and  in 
spite  of  his  sixty-two  summers,  straight  as  Sandy 
and  just  as  strong. 

He  stood  off  and  talked  to  us.  He  knew  we  were 
admiring  him — how  could  he  help  it !  His  white 
beard  fell  to  his  waist,  and  his  mustacheji  were 
curled  up  savagely  after  the  manner  of  Emperor 
William,  while  his  wide  sombrero  was  cocked 
carelessly  to  the  northwest.  His  long,  yellow  hair 
fell  to  his  shoulders.  The  suit  he  wore  was  of 
yellow  corduroy  that  matched  his  hair,  and  his 
russet-top  boots,  fringed  at  the  side,  matched  the 
corduroys.  The  buttons  on  his  coat  were  made  of 
nuggets  of  Klondike  gold;  his  belt  was  of  buck 
skin  with  a  big  silver  buckle,  and  between  the 
bottom  of  his  vest  and  the  top  of  his  trousers  was 
a  six-inch  interregnum  of  blue  flannel  shirt.  A 
bright  red  necktie  blew  out  from  under  the  white 
beard ;  the  trousers  were  caught  over  the  ears  of 
the  dainty  boots ;  one  hand  wore  a  gauntlet  and 
its  mate  was  carried  in  a  small,  white  hand,  upon  the 
middle  finger  of  which  was  an  immense  diamond. 

6 


Q  ' '  You  are  looking  at  my  ring — worth  a  thousand  J  O  A  Q  U I N 
dollars  or  more,  they  say — given  to  me  by  a  dear  MILLER 
friend  now  in  Purgatory,  if  Ben  knows  his  business. 
Q  "  I  wear  that  ring  in  memory  of  a  great  friend 
ship,  and  also  because  I  love  the  diamond  for  its 
own  sake — it  symbols  infinity,  eternity.  The  dia 
mond  is  pure  carbon ;  at  least,  we  can  resolve  it 
back  into  carbon,  but  this  done  we  cannot  make  it 
over  into  a  diamond.  It  is  like  life,  we  can  take  it 
away,  but  we  cannot  give  it.  The  secret  of  the 
diamond  is  not  ours — it  took  an  eternity  to  pro 
duce  it.  I  am  as  old  as  the  diamond  and  I  shall 
never  die." 

We  followed  on  up  the  hillside.  The  sun  was  sink 
ing  down  into  the  Golden  Gate  in  a  burst  of 
glory.  "It's  all  mine,"  said  the  Poet,  and  waved 
his  hand  toward  the  western  landscape. 
We  came  to  a  queer  old  stile  and  followed  along 
a  grass-grown  pathway.  Soon  a  whole  little  vil 
lage  smiled  upon  us  from  a  terraced  outlook,  that 
seemed  surrounded  and  shut  in  by  tall  pines.  The 
houses  were  about  as  large  as  dry  goods  cases — 
say  eight  by  twelve.  There  were  a  dozen  of  them, 

7 


JOAQUIN  owned  by  the  Poet,  and  of  all  sorts  and  colors 
MILLER  and  shapes;  all  not  worth  so  much  as  that  dia 
mond  ring.  Over  every  little  house  ran  a  regular 
riot  of  roses,  red  and  white,  in  a  mad  race  for 
supremacy.  In  one  of  the  tiny  cottages  lives  the 
Poet.  We  entered — there  was  only  one  room,  a 
rag  carpet  rug  in  the  center,  a  plain  pine  table,  a 
bed  in  the  corner.  All  around  the  room  hung  the 
Poet's  clothes. 

"I  am  an  ascetic  in  everything  but  duds,"  ex 
plained  the  Poet,  as  he  saw  Brudder  vulcanizing. 
'You  see,  folks  are  always  giving  me  things — 
there  is  an  Esquimau  suit  of  seal-skin,  then  comes 
that  leather  hunting  shirt  and  buckskin  breeches. 
The  next  is  my  second-best  suit  of  corduroy,  the 
next  is  a  velvet  coat  given  to  me  by  the  Woman's 
Club  of  Denver,  when  I  lectured  for  them.  As 
you  see,  I  have  ten  pairs  of  boots  and  six  pairs  of 
moccasins.  That  ministerial  black  suit  I  wear  when 
I  speak  in  Ben's  pulpit." 

There  was  a  Mexican  saddle  and  bridle  in  the 
corner  and  bits  of  horse  jewelry  hung  around  on 
hooks. 


"And  your  books?"  I  ventured.  Q  "Books?"  JOAQUIN 
said  the  Poet,  "Books?  to  hell  with  books!  Books  MILLER 
are  for  people  who  cannot  think." 
It  will  be  observed  that  the  Poet's  language  is 
as  picturesque  as  his  raiment.  His  words  fitted  him 
like  the  feathers  on  a  duck.  Ben  tried  a  swear 
word,  but  it  was  strangely  out  of  place,  and  as  for 
myself,  I  only  cuss  in  print. 
Joaquin  Miller  is  the  most  charming  poseur  on  this 
terrestrial  ball,  but  he  has  posed  so  long  and  so  well 
that  his  poses  have  now  become  natural,  so  he  is 
no  longer  a  poseur. 

Up  on  the  topmost  crest  of  the  hill  he  has  built 
a  monument,  square,  stern,  rude,  crude,  and  im 
mensely  strong,  with  frowning  battlements  and 
menacing  turrets.  The  weather-worn  rocks  used  in 
its  construction  gave  the  building  a  Druidic  look.  It 
took  three  years  to  build  this  monument,  the  work 
being  done  mostly  by  the  Poet's  own  hands.  It  is 
twelve  feet  square  at  the  base,  and  about  twen 
ty-five  feet  high.  What  it  was  all  for  has  been  a 
question  much  discussed  in  the  neighborhood. 
The  Poet  is  very  proud  of  this  monument — it 

9 


JO  AQUIN  really  is  a  superb  bit  of  handicraft  for  an  amateur. 
MILLER  I  saw  the  craftsman's  pride  beaming  out  of  the  blue 
eyes,  and  so  I  worked  the  conversation  around  and 
lighted  the  fuse.  And  here  is  the  story : 
I  started  to  build  that  monument  to  the  memory 
of  Adam.  I  thought  that  this  spot  must  have  been 
the  Garden  of  Eden — and  anyway,  the  Garden 
of  Eden  was  no  finer  than  this.  And  then  I  had 
caught  glimpses  of  God  walking  around  here  in  the 
cool  of  the  day,  and  so  my  Chinese  helpers  and 
I  began  the  monument. 

Then  one  day  Preacher  Ben  came  up  here  and 
told  me  what  a  bad  man  Adam  was,  and  how 
Adam  and  his  wife  had  made  all  the  trouble  that 
was  in  the  world. 

Then  I  cast  around  to  think  who  was  the  next 
best  man.  And  I  dropped  on  Moses. 
Moses  was  the  greatest  leader  of  men  who  ever 
lived.  He  led  his  people  out  of  captivity — made 
them  free,  and  there  is  nothing  finer  than  to  give 
freedom. 

So  I  said  to  my  Chinese  helpers,  "  Here  goes  to 
Moses!" 

Moses  was  the  son  of  Pharaoh's  daughter,  you 
know — a  love-child — his  father  an  Israelite.  She 
hid  her  baby  away  in  the  bulrushes,  and  then  went 

10 


down  and  found  him  at  the  proper  time,  and  JOAQUIN 
told   one  of    the    most    touching    little    stories  MILLER 
ever  related — very  beautiful  and  the  most  nat 
ural  thing  on  earth.  The  child  was  brought  up  a 
prince,  but  his  heart  was  with  the  Israelites,  and 
you  know  how  he  finished  an  Egyptian  that  he 
saw  putting  the  thing  on  an  Israelite.  Oh,  Moses 
had  the  quality — I  expect  to  meet  him  in  Elysium 
some  day — he  is  our  kind. 

How  about  the  mistakes  of  Moses?  Look  you, 
my  boy,  Moses  made  no  mistakes.  Don't  imagine 
that  a  man  does  not  know  just  because  he  does  not 
explain.  Moses  knew,  but  he  gave  out  just  what 
his  people  were  ready  for,  and  no  more.  He  used 
to  say,  "  God  told  me  this  and  God  told  me  that," 
which  was  all  right.  God  tells  me  things  every 
day — He  whispers  to  me  at  night,  and  often  I  get 
up  and  go  out  under  the  stars  and  wait  for  His 
messages. 

All  of  the  Mosaic  Laws  were  for  the  good  of  the 
people,  sanitary,  sensible  and  right.  Christianity  is 
a  graft  on  Judaism,  and  it  all  traces  to  Moses. 
Q  Mose  was  what  you  might  call  an  ornitholog 
ical  rara  avis. 

When  he  died,  God  was  the  undertaker — no  one 
knows  where  he  was  buried,  but  I  am  of  the  belief 

11 


JOAQUIN  that  he  was  buried  right  here — exactly  under  this 
MILLER  monument,  and  so  far  my  assumption  has  not  been 
disproved. 

Now  we  will  unlock  the  little  iron  door  and  take 
a  look  inside  of  this  monument.  You  see  these 
steel  grate-bars- — looks  like  a  furnace  does  n't  it  ? 
Well,  that  is  because  it  is — a  crematory.  My  body 
is  to  be  placed  up  on  top,  that  steel  cover  is  to  be 
lifted  so  as  to  get  a  draft  through,  and  twenty-five 
cords  of  good,  dry  redwood  will  do  the  business. 
There  is  the  wood  corded  over  there — we  use  a 
little  now  and  then,  but  we  never  let  the  pile  get 
below  twenty-five  cords. 

I  have  invited  all  the  preachers  and  priests,  joss- 
house  men  and  sky-pilots  in  Oakland,  Alameda 
and  San  Francisco  to  attend  my  funeral.  I  have 
written  the  funeral  address  myself,  and  the  preach 
ers  are  to  draw  cuts  to  see  who  shall  read  it  to 
the  people.  Yes,  the  people  are  invited,  too,  and 
if  the  funeral  takes  place  on  a  school  day,  I  have 
arranged  that  the  children  shall  all  have  a  holiday. 
I  love  children  and  children  love  me — they  come 
up  here  sometimes  by  the  hundreds  and  I  read  to 
them.  I  never  caused  a  child  a  tear.  All  the  mean 
things  I  have  been  guilty  of  were  directed  towards 
grown-up  men. 

12 


No  sir,  no  one  shall  wear  mourning  for  me —  JOAQUIN 
death  is  only  a  change  of  condition.  And  Nature's  MILLER 
changes  are  for  the  better.  I  want  all  denomina 
tions  represented  at  my  funeral,  because  I  belong 
to  every  sect.  I  sympathize  with  all  superstitions 
and  creeds,  because  there  is  really  but  one  religion 
— these  seeming  differences  are  only  a  matter  of 
definitions  evolved  by  certain  temperaments.  I 
worship  Joss,  Jehovah,  Jove,  Jesus,  Mary  the 
Blessed  Mother,  Ali  Baba,  and  Mary  Baker  Eddy. 
All  of  the  gods  were  once  men,  and  these  names 
all  stand  for  certain  things  to  certain  people — each 
means  all  to  you  that  you  can  put  into  it.  A  name 
is  a  sound,  a  puff  of  air,  but  behind  the  epiglottis, 
the  eustachian  tube,  the  palate,  the  tongue  and 
the  roof  of  the  mouth,  is  a  thought — I  sympathize 
with  that  thought,  even  with  error,  because  error 
is  the  pathway  to  truth,  and  so  error  is  a  phase  of 
truth.  I  am  Francis  of  Assissi,  Novalis,  Plato, 
Swedenborg,  Porphyry  and  Buffalo  Bill.  I  fill  my 
self  with  aceticism,  get  drunk  on  abnegation,  re 
cite  my  own  poems,  and  dance  a  two-step  inspired 
by  self-sacrifice.  I  am  touched  with  madness,  but 
sane  enough  to  know  it.  I  have  a  good  time  on 
nothing,  and  although  I  live  'way  up  here  alone,  yet 
I  am  always  in  the  company  of  good  people — 

13 


JO  AQUIN  are  n't  you  here?  I  am  the  Universal  Man,  and  so 
MILLER  are  You»  ancl  everybody  is,  only  they  don't  know 
it.  What 's  that  Chinaman  yelling  about  ?  Oh,  he 
says  breakfast  is  ready — I  forgot. 

When  you  visit  Joaquin  Miller,  you  are  not  shown 
to  your  room — you  are  given  a  house.  The  Poet 
puts  his  head  out  of  the  door  and  gives  an  "  Al- 
lehoiah-ala-hoohoo-oo ! "  and  out  hops  an  Orien 
tal,  all  dressed  in  white,  and  takes  you  to  your 
cottage.  You  perform  your  ablutions  (I  trust  1  use 
the  right  word)  at  the  spring,  or  the  horse  trough, 
and  when  you  get  back  that  heathen  Chinee  has 
opened  your  suit-case,  brushed  your  clothes,  hung 
out  your  night-shirt,  placed  half  a  bushel  of 
cut  roses  on  the  table  and  disappeared.  In  ten 
minutes  he  comes  back  in  to  tell  you  in  pigeon 
English  that  supper  is  ready. 
The  dining-room  is  in  one  of  the  cottages,  set 
apart  for  a  kitchen.  The  Chinee  is  a  superb  cook. 
Our  table  is  set  out  under  an  arbor  of  roses,  and 
we  have  vegetables  to  spare,  and  fruits  galore, 
and  nuts  to  crack,  and  a  tin  bucket  of  milk  cooled 
in  the  running  water  of  the  spring,  and  loaves  of 

14 


brown  bread  which  we  break  up  in  chunks;  but  JOAQUIN 
there  is  no  meat.  Q  The  Poet  leaves  us — he  has  MILLER 
work  to  do — but  scarcely  do  we  get  back  to  the 
cottage,  which  we  already  call  Home,  before  the 
Poet's  bearded  face  looks  in  at  the  open  window, 
and  he  asks,  "Did  you  see  that  inscription  on  the 
Carnegie  Library  down  at  Oakland?  Over  the 
doorway  are  carved  three  words,  'Poetry,  Lit 
erature,  Prose/ 

*  That  is  a  personal  biff — I  told  'em  so.  I  said,  *  You 
fellows  should  have  put  it  this  way:  Poetry,  Prose, 
Rot,   Tommyrot;  and  inside  you  should   have 
carved  these  words:  Oratory,  Gab,  Guff,  Talk, 
Buzz,  Harangue,  Palaver,  with  the  name  of  some 
good  man  who  has  a  talent  for  each.' ' 

The  nearest  cottage  to  the  one  occupied  by  the 
Poet  belongs  to  his  mother,  a  Quaker-like  old 
dame,  ninety  years  young,  who  fully  realizes  that 
she  is  part  of  the  Exhibit. 

There  was  a  whispered  conference  between 
Mother  and  Son,  and  then  the  old  lady  asked: 

*  Which  one  is  it,  did  you  say,  that  writes  the 
'  Little  Journeys '  ?  " 

15 


JOAQUIN  I  saw  I  was  being  pointed  out,  and  so  I  modestly 
MILLER  scrutinized  the  surrounding  landscape,  while  the 
old  lady  scrutinized  me,  walking  around  me  twice. 
Then  she  sighed  and  remarked,"  "  He  does  n't  look 
so  very  smart  to  me,"  and  went  on  solemnly 
with  her  knitting.  Later,  we  became  good  friends 
— the  old  lady  and  I — although  I  was  conscious 
that  I  was  being  compared  furtively  with  the  son 
of  his  mother — much  to  my  disadvantage. 
"  He  is  greater  than  Shakespeare,"  said  the  old  lady 
to  me  once,  confidentially — "only,  do  you  know, 
he  is  such  a  fool  that  he  tears  up  the  best  things 
he  writes,  and  says  he  is  going  to  write  them 
over,  but  he  never  does." 

And  then  she  explained  how  this  son  went  off  to 
the  Klondike  two  years  ago,  and  was  now  plan 
ning  to  go  again.  "  But  I  Ve  set  down  my  foot!  I 
found  out  about  it  and  just  put  a  stop  to  the 
whole  business — the  idea ! "  and  the  good  mother 
sighed  in  a  way  that  showed  she  had  troubles  of 
her  own. 

We  stood  by  the  stile,  saying  the  final  good-bye. 
The  old  lady  had  come  down,  too.  "  He  tears  up 

16 


GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES 


the  best  things  he  writes,"  she  said  to  me — "now  JOAQUIN 
tell  him  he  has  no  sense ! " 
"And  if  you  should,"  said  the  son,  "she  would 
be  the  first  one  to  dispute  it." 
'  Thank  heaven,  I  have  n't  another  son  like  you ! " 
was  the  answer,  and  the  boy  of  three-score  dodged 
the  old  lady's  cane,  and  said,    "Don't  worry, 
sweetheart,  you  never  will!" 
We  crossed  the  stile,  and  followed  on  down  the 
winding  pathway  that  ran  through  the  grove  of 
citron  and  orange  trees.  Looking  up  after  five 
minutes'  walk,  we  saw  the  Poet  standing  on  a 
slightly  jutting  cliff  just  above,  his  arm  around  his 
mother.  The    old  lady  leaned   over  and   called 
aloud  to  me,  in  a  voice  touched  with    falsetto, 
"Don't  go  to  the  Klondike — it  is  a  fool  idea!  " 

ELBERT  HUBBARD. 


17 


THE   STUDY 


'  THE   STUDY 

JOAQUIN  MILLER,  the  unique,  the  eccen 
tric,  the  sensational,  the  incomprehensible! 
Yes,  and  at  the  same  time,  the  greatest  poet 
of  all  this  great  America  of  ours.  No  other 
writer  has  caught  the  lights  and  shades  of  the 
West — its  trackless  deserts,  its  majestic  mountains, 
its  gloomy  canyons,  its  valleys,  its  placid  ocean, 
and  its  rough  and  ready,  generously  reckless, 
tenderly  sympathetic,  early-day  pioneers,  as  he. 
Joaquin  was  brought  up  in  the  midst  of  it.  If  not 
born  in  it,  his  childhood  was  spent  in  it.  The  Or 
egon  Trail  was  his  first  foot-path,  skirmishes  with 
Indians  his  youthful  adventures,  and  the  wild  chil 
dren  of  the  untamed  West  his  earliest  companions. 
Q  And  with  the  eye  of  the  true  artist,  he  has 
painted  his  pictures  faithfully  to  the  land  of  his 
love.  His  portraits  are  true  to  the  life;  his  land 
scapes  full  of  the  color  that  exists ;  his  seascapes 
soulful  of  the  tenderness,  pathos  and  despair  of 
the  placid  and  treacherous  Pacific. 
Others  have  written  often  and  much  about 

19 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  Joaquin,  sometimes  sympathetically,  oftener  harshly 
MILLER  and  unkindly.  To  write  truthfully,  though,  one 
must  know.  The  angle  of  vision  determines  the 
sight  seen. 

No  unknowing  and  unsympathetic  soul  can  describe 
Joaquin.  He  is  too  open,  too  simple,  too  complex 
in  his  very  simplicity  to  be  understood  by  the  man 
who  is  always  "  looking  for  something  more  than 
he  sees."  No  poet  was  ever  more  misunderstood  and 
no  poet  was  ever  really  so  easy  to  understand  and 
know.  Take  him  as  he  is !  Read  him  as  he  stands. 
Do  not  seek  to  interpret  his  actions ;  state  them. 
Do  not  put  motives  upon  doings  that  are  motive 
less,  except  that  he  had  to  do  them.  Let  him  be 
his  own  interpreter  and  you  will  gain  a  clearer 
knowledge  of  him.  Thus  it  is  I  feel  I  can  say  to 
Joaquin  as  Browning  said : 

Stand  still,  true  poet  that  you  are ! 

I  know  you ;  let  me  try  and  draw  you. 

We  have  spent  happy  days  together — have  quar 
reled  and  argued,  loved  and  gossiped,  trusted  and 
respected  each  other,  and  know  each  a  little  of 
the  other.  That  little  I  seek  to  present. 

20 


JLpnce  received  a  cordial  invitation  from  Joaquin  JO  A  QU  IIs 
to  spend  Christmas  day  with  him.  I  went  early  in  MILLER 
order  that  I  might  enjoy  the  full  day,  and,  as  is  my 
wont,  took  my  camera  with  me,  hoping  for  oppor 
tunities  to  make  a  few  interesting  pictures.  It  was 
a  beautiful  morning  and  as  I  left  the  electric  cars 
in  the  valley  and  started  to  walk  up  the  hillside 
road  to  the  Hights,  all  nature  seemed  to  respond 
to  the  joyous  and  healthy  emotions  of  my  own 
soul.  With  my  heavy  camera  swung  over  my 
shoulder,  I  trudged  along,  now  and  again  turning 
back  to  enjoy  the  glorious  valley  view,  with  the 
smooth  expanse  of  hills  surrounding  the  bay,  and 
the  glow  of  the  morning  sun  on  the  far-reaching 
ocean.  The  winter  rains  had  clothed  the  hillsides 
and  valley  in  their  most  perfect  robes.  Everything 
was  fresh,  clean  and  sweet-scented,  and  the  birds 
reveled  in  the  delight  of  it  all  as  much  as  I  did. 
They  twittered  and  chirped  and  called  one  to 
another  and  sang  their  loudest,  best  and  sweetest 
in  very  fullness  of  joy.  In  one  place,  I  saw  a  flock 
of  blackbirds  dabble  in  little  pools  left  by  the 
rain,  chattering  the  while  with  a  force  and 

21 


JOAQUIN  volubility  that  suggested  that  each  was  trying  to 
MILLER  drown  the  voice  of  the  other. 

On  my  arrival  at  the  Hights,  I  found  Joaquin's 
plantation  in  full  bloom.  He  has  an  Oriental's 
fondness  for  flowers,  and  his  garden,  at  this  time, 
showed  evidence  of  great  care  and  love  expended 
upon  it.  Joaquin's  open  door  invited  me  to  enter, 
but  as  I  stood  upon  the  upper  step,  I  got  a  glimpse 
of  the  poet  hard  at  work  writing,  in  bed — his 
usual  working  place.  Before  I  had  time  to  greet 
him,  his  cheery  salute  burst  forth :  "  What  do  you 
mean  by  coming  and  bothering  me  at  this  early 
hour  in  the  morning  ?  The  desire  to  write  seizes 
me  seldom  enough,  and  when  it  does,  I  don't  want 
to  be  bothered  by  any  one  coming  to  see  me. 
Go  take  a  walk!" 

Now  many  people  would  have  been  offended  at 
a  salutation  like  this,  but  I  knew  Joaquin  too  well 
to  be  such  a  fool.  He  simply  meant  what  he  said 
and  no  more.  His  whole  nature  was  absorbed  in 
giving  expression  to  some  thought  that  interested 
him,  and  I  came  as  a  disturbing  presence.  He  did 
not  want  me  and  said  so  emphatically ;  therefore, 

22 


NDREW  S.  ROWAN 


without  a  word,  I  withdrew  to  enjoy  the  delights  J  O  A  Q  U I N 
of  the  garden.  MILLER 

Why  will  people  insist  upon  it  that  candor  is 
offensive  and  insulting  ?  I  was  Joaquin's  friend ; 
he  was  mine.  What  friendship  would  there  have 
been  in  my  disturbing  him  at  his  work  when  I  had 
all  day  to  wait,  and  what  faith  would  he  have 
shown  in  my  friendship,  if,  fearful  of  offending, 
he  had  allowed  me  to  interrupt  his  work?  That, 
to  me,  would  have  been  an  insult  and  an 
offence.  To  feel  that  my  friend  knew  and  under 
stood  me  so  little  as  to  deem  me  capable  of  put 
ting  my  paltry  dignity  before  his  comfort  and  the 
accomplishment  of  what  might  be  work  of  im 
portance  to  the  world !  For  aught  I  know,  he  may 
have  been  writing  at  that  very  moment  the  poem 
that  to  my  mind  is  the  most  powerful  yet  written 
in  the  English  tongue — "Columbus" — and  my 
unexpected  appearance  might  have  disturbed  or 
jarred  the  fine  equilibrium  of  mind  and  nervous 
system  which  enabled  him  to  put  into  such  pure, 
virile  English,  the  grand  and  important  lesson 
taught  to  the  New  World  by  this  great  discoverer. 

23  " 


Suppose  such  a  case — and  it  does  not  seem  to  me 
MILLER  an  unreasonable  supposition — could  I  have  for 
given  myself  had  such  a  thing  occurred  ?  So  now, 
as  then,  I  am  thankful  to  Joaquin  for  his  honest 
candor. 

Yet,  warring  with  this  sentiment  in  Joaquin's 
mind,  was  his  tardy  recognition  of  the  duties  of 
hospitality.  Little  by  little  there  sifted  into  his 
preoccupied  brain  the  thought  that,  perhaps,  he 
had  been  discourteous  to  me.  The  moment  he  saw 
this,  with  an  intenseness,  fervor,  and  simplicity,  as 
of  a  little  child,  he  jumped  out  of  bed,  regardless 
of  the  fact  that  he  wore  nothing  but  his  pajamas, 
rushed  into  the  garden,  rapidly  and  silently  picked 
a  most  beautiful  bouquet,  and  then,  stalking  up  to 
me  where  I  sat  eyeing  him  with  unaffected  amuse 
ment,  he  said,  "  If  you  can  read  what  the  flowers 
say,  you  will  see  that  I  am  sorry  for  not  having 
greeted  you  more  hospitably  this  morning.  I  love 
you  and  am  glad  to  see  you,  but  I  am  very  busy 
and  want  to  work  out  what  I  have  in  mind.  Ex 
cuse  me  for  a  little  while."  During  this  speech, 
that  calm,  blue  eye  of  his  looked  at  me  with  a 

24 


tremulous  intenseness  of  simple  trust  and  affection  JOAQUIN 
that  brought  tears  into  my  eyes,  and  1  thought  MILLER 
then,  as  I  have  thought  many  times  since,  how 
little  people  understand  this  great,  big,  simple- 
hearted,  bewhiskered  boy.  There  was  no  more 
thought  of  effect  in  this  action  than  there  is  in  the 
simplest  doings  of  a  child.  He  had  yielded  to  the 
generous  impulse  that  struck  him,  without  any 
more  thought  of  incongruity  or  ludicrousness  than 
that  displayed  by  a  little  child  who  rushes  into  a 
crowded  reception  room,  in  its  night-dress,  to 
kiss  papa  and  mamma  good-night! 
As  I  sat  there,  however,  cogitating  over  this  in 
teresting  instance,  somewhat  in  the  fashion  I  have 
just  written  down,  a  new  thought  struck  me.  It 
was  this:  Though  Joaquin  does  much  of  his 
writing  in  bed,  I  have  never  seen  a  photograph 
showing  him  at  work.  Now  is  the  time  to  get  one. 
Q  Carefully  1  set  up  my  camera,  got  everything 
ready,  and  then  calmly,  and  as  silently  as  I  could, 
stole  up  the  steps  into  his  room.  In  a  moment  his 
ire  was  aroused.  With  gruff  impatience  he  called 
out:  'What  are  you  doing?"  Deliberately 

25 


JOAQUIN  proceeding  to  focus  on  him,  I  replied:  "It  is  not 
MILLER  often  the  divine  afflatus  seizes  me  with  the  desire 
to  make  a  photograph  of  a  man  at  work  in  bed. 
When  it  does,  I  do  not  want  any  measly  old  poet 
to  interfere  with  my  work.  You  have  your  work 
to  do,  and  I  have  mine."  A  merry  twinkle  came 
into  his  eyes,  and  then  he  laughed  outright. 
' Well,  what  do  you  want,  anyway?" 
"  All  I  want  is  that  you  will  go  right  on  with 
your  work,  just  as  you  are,  until  I  ask  you  to  stop. 
Then  I  want  you  to  hold  still  and  look  pleasant 
for  a  little  while,  until  I  tell  you  to  resume  your 
natural  expression." 

He  did  exactly  as  I  asked  him,  and  the  result  was 
I  secured  two  of  as  fine  negatives  as  I  ever  made, 
showing  the  poet  engaged  in  writing,  in  his  favor 
ite  attitude. 

It  may  strike  some  people  as  strange  that  he 
should  desire  to  write  in  bed,  and  yet  it  is  per 
fectly  simple  and  natural.  There  is  a  freedom  and 
ease  of  body  when  one  is  in  bed,  that,  to  many, 
is  conducive  to  an  easy  flow  of  thought.  I  have 
often  experienced  it  myself.  The  attitude  of  repose, 

26 


with  eyes  closed,  is  productive  of  mental  activity.  JOAQUIN 
It  is  little  trouble  to  sit  up,  write  out  the  idea,  MILLER 
and  then  lie  down  again  until  more  thoughts  come. 
It  is  only  when  the  writing  mood  is  upon  him 
that  Joaquin  is  thus  a  "stayer  in  bed."  He  is 
usually  very  active  and  fond  of  outdoor  exercise. 
Q I  once  expressed  to  Joaquin  a  desire  to  meet 
Col.  John  P.  Irish,  who  was  then  editor  of  one 
of  the  leading  San  Francisco  dailies.  One  night 
Joaquin  came  over  to  Oakland  to  deliver  a  lec 
ture,  and,  of  course,  I  attended.  Unfortunately, 
some  pressing  duties  detained  me  and  I  arrived  at 
the  lecture  hall  after  he  had  begun  to  speak.  The 
room  was  well  filled.  It  must  have  been  a  lodge 
room,  for  at  each  end  and  on  each  side  there  were 
small,  raised  platforms,  on  which  were  seats  cov 
ered  with  canopies,  such  as  are  used  for  officers 
of  secret  organizations.  Desirous  of  giving  me  a 
good  seat,  the  usher  took  me  to  the  raised  plat 
form  on  the  side,  at  the  right  of  Joaquin.  My 
entrance  naturally  disturbed  the  speaker,  and, 
seeing  who  it  was,  and  noticing  that  Col.  Irish  sat 
immediately  in  front  of  him,  the  thought  doubtless 

27 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  flashed  through  Joaquin's  mind  that  here  was  a 
MILLER  good  opportunity  to  make  the  promised  intro 
duction.  Accordingly,  without  any  apology  to 
his  audience,  he  stepped  from  the  stand  upon 
which  he  was  speaking,  took  Col.  Irish  by  the 
hand  and  led  him  to  where  1  sat,  exclaiming, 
"James,  Irish!  Irish,  James!"  And  then  walked 
back  and  resumed  his  speech.  To  say  the  audi 
ence  was  amazed,  is  but  to  express  it  mildly; 
while  Irish  and  I  stood  quietly  laughing  at  each 
other,  at  the  audience,  and  at  Joaquin's  consum 
mate  imperturbability. 

Lady  Constance  Rothschild,  the  wife  of  Mr. 
Cyril  Flower,  Member  of  Parliament  for  Luton, 
well  known  for  the  brilliancy  of  her  receptions,  as 
well  as  their  broad  and  bohemian  character,  once 
told  me  of  a  reception  she  arranged  for  the  pur 
pose  of  bringing  Joaquin  and  Mrs.  Langtry  to 
gether.  The  latter  was  then  at  the  height  of  her 
fame.  On  the  evening  of  the  reception,  Joaquin 
came  early,  and,  to  Mrs.  Flower's  amazement, 
presented  himself  in  a  red  flannel  shirt,  a  pair  of 
blue  denim  overalls,  tucked  into  tall,  miners' 

28 


boots,  and  wearing  a  very  high-crowned  broad-  J  O  A  Q  U I N 
brimmed  sombrero,  which  he  failed  to  remove  in  MILLED 
her  presence. 

'  You  do  not  mind  my  appearing  in  this  rig,  do 
you,  Lady  Constance?"  inquired  Joaquin.  "I 
want  to  meet  Mrs.  Langtry  as  a  representative  of 
the  miners  of  California." 

"Certainly  not," replied  Mrs.  Flower,  "whatever 
is  agreeable  to  you  is  eminently  satisfactory  tome." 
0[  As  the  other  guests  arrived,  one  by  one,  and 
saw  this  strangely  grotesque  figure,  chatting  with 
perfect  ease  and  sang  froid  with  the  most  beauti 
ful  belles  of  London,  and  the  brainiest  men  in 
England,  they  wondered  what  new  freak  Mrs. 
Flower  had  provided  for  them.  They  were  not 
left  long  to  question.  When  Mrs.  Langtry  ap 
peared,  robed  with  the  perfection  of  taste  that 
has  helped  make  her  name  world-famed,  Joaquin 
advanced  to  meet  her,  led  by  Mrs.  Flower.  As 
the  introduction  took  place,  Joaquin  seemed  not  to 
notice  the  proffered  hand  of  Mrs.  Langtry,  but, 
rapidly  raising  both  hands  to  his  sombrero,  took 
hold  of  it  and  dexterously  showered  upon  the 

29  " 


JOAQUIN  astonished  lady  a  wealth  of  beautiful  rose  leaves, 
MILLER  at  the  same  time  jerking  out  in  his  most  jerky 
fashion,  "The  tribute  of  the  California  roses  to 
the  Jersey  Lily." 

1  Where  do  you  live,  Joaquin?"  I  once  asked 
him. 

4 Three  miles  east,  one  mile  perpendicular! "  was 
the  reply. 

Geographically  speaking,  that  place  is  "the 
Hights,"  near  Oakland,  California,  and  is  Joaquin 
Miller's  home. 

That  expression,  "Three  miles  east  and  one  mile 
perpendicular,"  is  a  graphic,  symbolic  statement 
of  Joaquin's  mental  habitat.  He  lives  miles  nearer 
to  the  rising  sun  than  most  people,  and  his  normal 
dwelling  place  is  "a  mile  perpendicular."  His 
nest  is  on  "  the  Hights" ;  his  eye  far-seeing,  blue, 
prophetic,  keen,  kind ;  and  his  soul  attuned,  when 
he  sings,  to  the  harmony  of  the  spheres. 
With  narrowness,  and  conceit  born  of  its  narrow 
ness,  the  East  has  never  thought  Joaquin  Miller 
as  great  a  poet  as  its  Longfellow,  its  Bryant,  its 
Whittier,  its  Emerson,  its  Poe.  But  Eastern 

30 


standards  are  not  alone  American  standards.  Be  JOAQUIN 
it  for  good  or  for  evil,  America,  in  literature,  no  MILLER 
longer   means   New    England,    any    more  than 
America  is  New  England.  The  American  poet 
must  be  more  than  local. 

America  is  not  confined  to  New  England.  It  is  a 
vast  continent.  To  be  an  American  poet,  one  must 
know  more  than  New  England,  more  than  the 
North,  more  than  the  South,  more  than  the  Mid 
dle  West,  even  more  than  Chicago  and  St.  Louis. 
He  must  know  those  towering  and  far-reaching 
Rockies,  in  one  fold  of  which  all  the  mountains  of 
the  East  and  South  could  softly  nestle  and  hide. 
He  must  know  the  Pacific  as  well  as  the  Atlantic ; 
the  mysteries,  honors,  joys  and  agonies  of  the 
painted  desert ;  the  bottomless  but  colorful  abysses 
of  the  Grand  Canyon;  the  wild,  beauteous  rug- 
gedness  of  the  Yosemite ;  the  bubbling  hell-pools 
of  the  Yellowstone ;  the  solitude  and  snowy  vast- 
nesses  of  Alaska,  and  indeed,  all  the  many  and  va 
ried  physiographic  features  that  distinguish  our  new 
and  Titanic  West  from  our  great  but  older  East. 
Q  More !  he  must  be  familiar  with  the  child  heart 

31 


JOAQUIN  of  the  human  race  as  well  as  that  of  the  highly 
MILLER  cultured.  Longfellow  wrote  beautifully  of  the 
Indian,  but  it  was  a  white  man,  a  civilized  mind 
expounding  the  theme,  hence  it  was  not  Indian. 
Joaquin  lived  with  Indians;  became  an  Indian. 
There  is  a  vast  difference  between  becoming  like 
an  Indian  and  really  transforming  into  one.  Few 
white  men  ever  become  Indians.  Joaquin  did.  He 
began  early  enough — the  only  time  one  can  begin. 
Allured  by  the  mysticism  that  surrounded  the 
strangely  clad,  often  unclad,  rough-looking,  dark- 
eyed  natives,  he  followed  them  to  their  camps  and 
climbed  with  them  to  snowy  mountain  heights  and 
rocky  canyon  depths.  He  loved  them,  and  they  loved 
him  in  return.  Then  they  taught  him  the  woodcraft 
of  a  thousand  years,  and  showed  him  how  to  read 
the  heavens,  the  earth,  and  the  waters  that  are 
under  the  earth,  as  none  but  Indians  can.  He 
journeyed  with  them  on  foot,  on  horseback,  and 
in  canoe.  He  sat  with  them  by  their  camp-fires 
and  learned,  as  children  learn  from  their  mothers, 
how  they  think,  how  they  imagine,  how  they 

create.  He  listened  as  they  told  their  strange, 

32 


simple  and  poetic  conceptions  as  to  how  the  world  J  O  A  Q  U I  IS 
and  all  its  powers  originated.  His  poetic  imagina-.MILLER 
tion  was  fired  by  their  child-like,  but  exquisitely 
beautiful  stories,  legends  and  myths.  He  saw  the 
mountains,  valleys,  forests,  plains,  canyons,  deserts, 
ocean  and  islands  in  their  creation,  as  the  Indian 
poets  saw  them,  and  he  entered  into  a  new  life 
when  these  necromancers  of  the  imagination  pic 
tured  for  him  the  "days  of  old,"  when  reptiles, 
fishes,  birds  and  beasts  walked  and  talked  with 
men. 

During  all  this  time,  he  lived  as  an  Indian,  out 
of  doors,  free,  unconfined,  wild,  untamed,  unciv 
ilized  as  the  birds,  the  trees,  the  clouds,  the  stars. 
Q  Then,  in  the  days  of  his  young  manhood,  he 
went  back  to  civilization.  He  taught  himself  re 
straint,  control,  subjugation  of  his  will  to  others. 
In  these  days  he  passed  through  many  and  varied 
experiences,  now  adding  knowledge  both  of  books 
and  men  to  his  accumulated  store  of  Indian  and 
Nature  lore.  Yet  his  life  still  gave  him  that  daily 
contact  with  the  new  and  larger  West  of  which 
he  was  to  become  pre-eminently  the  poet.  He 

33 


JOAQUIN  studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  practice  at  the 
MILLER  bar;  he  went  to  the  gold  mines  and  experienced 
all  its  strange  and  novel  life — doing  his  own  cook 
ing,  caring  for  sick  comrades,  washing  his  own 
clothes,  laboring  with  his  hands  in  the  eager 
search  for  the  yellow  metal,  now  facing  a  drunken 
desperado,  and  next  passing  the  hat  for  an  itiner 
ant  preacher.  During  this  gold  excitement,  there 
\  was  a  time  when  the  miners  were  shut  in  and 
could  get  no  mail.  Deep  snows,  fifteen  feet  and 
more,  had  frightened  the  mail  carrier,  and  these 
hundreds  of  men  longed  for  news  from  wives, 
daughters,  sons,  at  home.  Joaquin  Miller  was  the 
one  man  of  the  camp  who  volunteered  to  brave 
the  storms,  dare  the  dangers,  defy  the  perils,  and 
stand  off  the  hungry  wolves,  as  he  crossed  the 
snow-clad  mountains,  swept  by  angry  winds, 
where  no  trail  led  his  footsteps  and  all  the  ordi 
nary  identification  marks  were  invisible ;  slid  and 
slipped  down  the  steep  canyon  slopes  and  forded 
or  "  logged  "  the  swift-running  mountain  streams, 
simply  to  bring  messages  of  love  to  the  lonely 
men.  It  was  on  that  trip  that  he  suffered  the 

34 


untold  agonies  of  snow-blindness — agony  that  was  J  O  A  Q  U I N 
not  merely  temporary,  but  that  affected  his  eye-  MILLER 
sight  so  that  he  suffers  from  the  ill  effects  to  this 
day.  Soon  he  organized  a  pony  express  connect 
ing  California,  Idaho  and  Montana,  and  himself 
rode  against  time,  hostile  Indians,  and  bandit 
whites.  Day  or  night,  light,  starlight  or  pitch  dark, 
the  mad  race  of  the  pony  express  continued.  Who 
can  tell  what  the  world  owes  to  the  pictures  that 
flashed  into  the  brain  of  the  rising  American  poet 
as  he  dashed  through  the  air  in  this  exciting  and 
dangerous  occupation. 

Before  and  during  the  war,  he  edited  a  paper, 
and,  as  a  Quaker  should,  he  spoke  in  the  interests 
of  peace.  Not  being  a  politician,  he  saw  things 
from  the  abstractly  right  view-point  and  said  and 
wrote  things  that  in  those  heated  days  were  re 
garded  as  treasonable ;  so  his  paper  was  suppressed 
and  he  was  practically  ostracised. 
Again  he  fled  to  the  gold  mines,  and  there  had 
an  experience  with  a  brave  band  of  pioneers  who 
went  out  to  put  down  an  uprising  of  the  savage 
Indians  of  the  Lava  Beds,  in  Northern  California. 

35 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  Q  On  his  return,  he  was  elected  to  the  bench  and 
MILLER  served  a  term,  devoting  all  his  spare  time  to  writing 
some  of  the  thoughts  that  flooded  his  brain.  His 
published  poems  brought  him  nothing  but  disdain, 
however,  and  defeat  in  the  next  convention,  where 
he  asked  for  higher  honors.  It  was  a  bitter  disap 
pointment,  yet,  like  so  many  similar  experiences, 
it  was  a  blessing  in  disguise.  It  sent  him  off  to 
Europe,  where  he  came  in  contact  with  the  larger 
world  of  science,  art  and  letters.  He  saw  the  civ 
ilizations  of  the  old  world  and  learned  at  first  hand, 
with  his  novel  experiences  as  a  background,  the 
lessons  of  the  past. 

Then  followed  years  of  travel  and  varied  vicissi 
tudes  here,  there  and  everywhere.  Brought  into 
contact  with  the  highest  and  the  best,  he  learned 
fully  to  appreciate  what  they  valued  in  his  art. 
Q  Hence  a  peculiar  fitness  for  the  work  that  des 
tiny  had  prepared  for  him.  He  came  to  look  upon 
this  great  America  of  his  as  no  other  poet  of  the 
age  could.  His  survey  was  from  a  higher  eleva 
tion,  was  immeasurably  more  comprehensive,  and 
far  more  understanding  than  that  of  any  of  his 

36 


compeers.  He  saw  with  the  eyes  of  culture,  edu-  JOAQUIN 
cation  and  refinement  the  Eastern  and  Old  World  MILLER 
civilization,  and,  to  my  mind,  more  important  still, 
as  an  equipment  for  our  poet,  he  saw  with  the 
eyes  of  childhood  of  the  race,  eyes  that  accepted 
the  mysteries  of  Life  and  Nature  as  babes  accept 
them,  without  a  thought,  a  question  or  a  fear. 
Cf  Hence  his  work  is  conventional,  and  yet  as 
wildly  free  as  the  song  of  the  bird.  His  verse  is 
in  line,  yet  it  is  not  the  line  of  the  ruler,  but  of  the 
gigantic  Sequoia.  His  poems  are  sculptured  mar 
ble,  but  they  are  like  El  Capitan  and  the  Grand 
Canyon,  sculptured  by  wind,  frost,  rain,  storm 
and  atmospheric  gases. 

As  a  Nature  singer,  no  American  poet  is  the 
equal  of  Joaquin  Miller.  None  could  have  been 
unless  he  had  had  Joaquin's  experience  and  knew 
what  he  knew. 

There  is  nothing  derogatory  in  recognizing  the 
limitations  of  Longfellow,  Lowell  and  others  of 
our  poets.  They  did  not  see,  did  not  know  this 
larger,  greater  America,  and  therefore  exercised 
their  energies  in  other  directions.  Had  Fremont 

37 


JOAQUIN  been  a  poet,  he  might  have  stood  side  by  side 
MILLER  with  Joaquin  Miller  and  challenged  his  right  to  the 
elevated  position  I  claim  for  him :  for  he  knew — 
he  was  a  mountain  climber,  a  forder  of  unknown 
streams,  a  pathfinder  over  trackless  prairies  and 
a  maker  of  trails  over  pathless  deserts.  Lewis  and 
Clark  knew  enough,  perhaps,  had  they  had  the 
poetic  fire,  to  have  been  great  American  poets : 
for  they  wandered  over  the  untamed  vastness  of 
the  West  in  the  early  days  of  the  white  man's 
occupancy  of  the  continent. 
But  men  who  never  crossed  the  Missouri  River, 
much  less  those  who  never  reached  half-way  to 
it  from  the  East — were  incapable  of  being  the 
poets  of  all  America.  They  did  not  know  Amer 
ica  in  its  fullness,  hence  their  harps  were  not 
strung  to  all  its  sweet  melodies  and  entrancing 
harmonies. 

Nay!  the  simile  is  incomplete,  unsatisfactory.  To 
stretch  the  musical  metaphor  and  compel  it,  against 
its  limitations,  to  obey  my  thought,  the  theme, 
"America,"  is  one  which  requires  orchestral 
handling.  String,  wood,  reed,  brass,  pipe  and  pig 

38 


skin,  with  occasional  cymbals  and  bells,  are  needed.  J  O  A  Q  U I N 
The  mere  flute  player,  play  he  never  so  ravish-  MILLER 
ingly,  cannot  satisfy  the  ear's  demand  for  brazen 
music ;  neither  can  the  divine  playing  of  a  Paga- 
nini  on  the  strings  compensate  for  the  absence  of 
trombone,  oboe,  clarinet  and  French  horn. 
Our  great  poets,  as  Bryant,  Longfellow,  Lowell, 
Emerson,  Holmes,  were  admirable  soloists,  or 
perhaps  capable  of  producing  delicious  strains 
from  more  than  one  instrument,  but  Joaquin  Mil 
ler  is  the  controlling  power  of  a  great  orchestra, 
upon  every  instrument  of  which  he  plays  with 
skill  and  passion.  He  has  scaled  the  heights,  dared 
the  depths  of  the  wonderful  gamut  of  a  full,  com 
plete,  whole  America.  His  work  gives  ravishing 
melodies  and  entrancing  harmonies,  comprising 
all  the  elements  of  choicest  music  in  masterly  ar 
rangement. 

Read  in  the  following  selections  his  invitation  to 
his  daughter  to  come  to  his  newly  established 
home  on  "the  Hights,"  above  Oakland,  and  see 
how,  in  that  one  song,  longing,  tenderness,  sweet 
ness,  pathos,  strength,  ruggedness,  and  love  are 

39 


JOAQUIN  combined.  Q  He  saw  and  described  beauty  in 
MILLER  every  form.  Read  his  "Alaska,"  'Yosemite," 
"The  Ship  in  the  Desert,"  and  "Where  Rolls 
the  Oregon,"  and  then  run  through  his  poems  as 
a  whole  and  pick  out  a  thousand  dainty  and  ex 
quisite  little  bits,  such  as  these : 

She  was  damn'd  with  the  dower  of  beauty,  she 
Had  gold  in  shower  by  shoulder  and  brow. 
Her  feet! — why,  her  two  blessed  feet  were  so  small, 
They  could  nest  in  this  hand.  How  queenly,  how  tall, 
How  gracious,  how  grand ! 
Or  this  introduction  to  his  "Arizonian": 
Come  to  my  sunland!  Come  with  me 
To  the  land  I  love ;  where  the  sun  and  sea 
Are  wed  for  ever ;  where  the  palm  and  pine 
Are  fiird  with  singers;  where  tree  and  vine 
Are  voiced  with  prophets !  O  come,  and  you 
Shall  sing  a  song  with  the  seas  that  swirl 
And  kiss  their  hands  to  that  cold  white  girl, 
To  the  maiden  moon  in  her  mantle  of  blue. 
Even  Browning's  "  Dawn"  is  not  more  vivid  than 

these  two  lines: 

And  the  pale  moon  rubs  on  her  purple  cover 
Till  worn  as  thin  and  as  bright  as  tin. 

Like  Browning,  he  has  many  notes  of  true  fun, 

40 


in  which  you  can  hear  him  clap  his  hands  and  JOAQUIN 

laugh  with  very  exuberance  of  glee.  Such  things  MILLER 

are,   "In  Classic  Shades,"   "The  Gentle  Man 

from  Boston,"  "William  Brown  of  Oregon,"  and 

"A  Turkey  Hunt  on  the  Colorado,"  the  anti-climax 

of  which  is  a  masterly  stroke. 

Listen  to  the  bold  roar  of  the  storm  in  this  verse 

from  "At  our  Golden  Gate"  : 

Oh,  for  England's  old  sea  thunder 
Oh,  for  England's  bold  sea  men, 
When  we  banged  her  over,  under 
And  she  banged  us  back  again ! 
Better  old  time  strife  and  stresses, 
Cloud  top't  towers,  walls,  distrust ; 
Better  wars  than  lazinesses, 
Better  loot  than  wine  and  lust ! 
Give  us  seas  ?  Why,  we  have  oceans ! 
Give  us  manhood,  sea  men,  men ! 
Give  us  deeds,  loves,  hates,  emotions! 
Else  give  back  these  seas  again. 

He  has  always  been  an  ideal  defender  of  the 
slandered  and  dishonored.  When  Joaquin  Muri- 
etta,  the  California  bandit,  was  hounded  and  fol 
lowed,  captured  and  cruelly  slain,  Miller  defended 

41 


JOAQUIN  him  in  his  poem  and  thus  brought  derision,  scorn, 
MILLER  hatred  and  contumely  upon  himself.  That  hatred 
and  scorn  was  what  caused  him  to  change  his 
name  to  Joaquin.  He  took  the  hated  name  and 
defied  those  who  despised  him. 
When  Walker  was  dishonored,   he  wrote  his 
'With  Walker  in  Nicaragua,"  and  started  out 
with: 

He  was  a  brick : 


For  he  was  true  as  God's  north  star, 

And  brave  as  Yuba's  grizzlies  are, 

Yet  gentle  as  a  panther  is, 

Mouthing  her  young  in  her  first  fierce  kiss. 
He  dedicated  his  collected  poems  to  the  most  hated 
and  universally  disliked  man  in  California:  Col- 
lis  P.  Huntington,  president  of  the  Southern 
Pacific,  in  tribute  of  his  greatness  as  a  builder 
of  railways. 

When  Riel,  the  Rebel,  was  hanged  in  Canada,  he 
wrote  three  stanzas,  that,  had  they  been  seen  by 
Queen  Victoria,  would  have  made  her  feel  as  if 
all  Arctic's  snow  and  ice  were  piled  upon  her 
bosom. 

42 


His  "Cuba  Libre"  was  as  vivid  and  powerful  JOAQUIN 
an  arraignment  of  Spain  as  was  ever  penned,  and  MILLER 
his  "Chants    for    the   Boer"  put  into  burning 
poetry  what  Herbert  Spencer  wrote  in  intense, 

forceful  prose. 

For  the  right  that  needs  assistance 
For  the  wrong  that  needs  resistance 
For  the  glory  in  the  distance, 
For  the  good  that  we  can  do, 

was  his  motto. 

His  cry  of  passion  at  the  suggestion  of  an  alliance 
between  England  and  the  United  States  in  the 
Britain-Boer  controversy,  is  like  a  trumpet-call  from 
the  fearless  Isaiah  or  daring  Elijah. 
And  yet,  at  the  outset,  he  says :  "  Find  here  not 
one  ill  word  for  brave  old  England ;  my  first,  best 
friends  were  English ! " 

To  Russia,  he  has  cried  with  Tolstoyan  power 
and  warning.  Nay,  Tolstoy  never  wrote  anything 
as  powerful  as  Joaquin  Miller's  "To  the  Czar." 
Q  Who  shall  say  he  is  not  a  prophet  ?  Twenty- 
three  years  ago,  he  wrote  "Cuba  Libre": 

She  shall  rise  as  rose  Columbus 

From  his  chains,  from  shame  and  wrong — 
43 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  Rise  as  morning,  matchless,  wondrous — 

MILLER  Rise  as  some  rich  morning  song — 

Rise  as  ringing  song  and  story, 

Valor,  Love  personified, 

Stars  and  Stripes  espouse  her  glory, 

Love  and  liberty  allied. 

Yes,  Joaquin  has  carried  many  messages  to  Gar 
cia.  Like  Andrew  Rowan,  who  has  no  intention 
of  retiring  from  business,  he  is  still  carrying  them. 
C£  In  one  or  two  instances,  he  has  not  hesitated  to 
call  aloud  to  arms,  as  in  the  "  Chants  for  the  Boer," 
where  he  bids  them  welcome  England : 

Well,  welcome  her ! 

Give  her  such  welcome  with  such  will 

As  Boston  gave  in  battle's  whir 

That  red,  dread  day  at  Bunker  Hill. 

His  ancestry  and  home  training  was  that  of  the 
Friends,  and  though  he  has  never  been  a  consist 
ent  anything,  much  less  a  Friend  in  the  orthodox, 
religious  sense,  his  voice  has  ever  been  for  peace. 
Of  There  are  some  poets  who  are  larger  than 
their  message,  and  who  know  it;  others  whose 
message  is  larger  than  themselves,  and  they  know 
it ;  still  others  whose  message  is  much  larger  than 

44 


themselves,  and  they  do  not  know  it.   To  this  JOAQUIN 
latter  class  Joaquin  Miller  belongs.  He  neither  MILLER 
knows  the  measure  of  his  work,  nor  of  himself. 
Nor  does  the  world,  as  yet,  dream  of  the  magni 
tude  and  power  of  his  art.  He  is  a  prophet  who 
sees  to  the  highest  hilltops  and  beyond. 

GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES. 


STUDY  OF  JAMES 

WHEN  Napoleon  met  Wolfgang  Goethe 
he  said,  "At  last  I  have  seen  a  man." 
Q  When  George  Wharton  James 
made  a  little  journey  to  Sun-up  and  spoke  one 
Sunday  afternoon  in  Roycroft  Chapel,  I  mopped 
for  joy  and  said  the  same. 

I  never  saw  but  one  man  to  compare  with  James, 
and  that  was  Dr.  Lorenz  of  Vienna.  They  look 
alike,  act  alike,  are  about  the  same  age — each  has 
the  same  splendid  health,  the  good  cheer,  the 
perfect  poise,  and  the  great  sympathetic  heart  of 
a  Man. 

45 


These  men  know  their  business,  and  each,  in  his 
own  line,  has  done  his  work  better  than  any  other 
living  person. 

James  is  the  one  authority  on  the  Art  of  the 
North  American  Indian. 
What 's  that ! — there  is  none  ? 
Lookee,  my  friend — no  white  woman  can  think 
out  with  her  head  and  make  with  her  hands  a 
work  of  beauty  to  compare  in  completeness,  in 
proportion,  in  perfection  of  color  and  design,  with 
the  work  of  an  Arizona  Indian  woman.  This  In 
dian  may  work  two  years  on  a  single  basket,  and 
into  its  design  she  will  weave  the  history  of  her 
race,  and  her  own  history  as  well — her  aspira 
tions,  hopes,  disappointments,  and  her  love. 
To  do  good  work  you  must  be  a  good  person. 
A  beautiful  piece  of  work  is  a  beautiful  thought 
made  manifest. 
An  Indian  basket  is  a  prayer. 
Man,  like  Deity,  creates  in  his  own  image.  If  there 
is  no  beauty  in  your  soul,  there  will  be  no  beauty 
in  your  work.  If  you  have  an  inward  illumination, 
it  will  come  out  at  your  finger-tips  in  your  work, 

46 


ELBERT  HUBBARD 


if  you  are  free.  Q,  And  so  these  Indians  who  do  J  O  A  Q  U I N 

this  perfect  work — this  work  of  most  exquisite  MILLER 

proportion  and  design — must  have  in  them  much 

good.  Are  they  not  God's  children  ?  and  has  He 

not  breathed  into  their  spirits  somewhat  of  the 

goodness  and  glory  that  reveals  itself  in  leaf  and 

flower,  in  bird  and  song,  in  mountain  peak  and 

sunset  glow? 

All  is  one. 

And  when  you  see  George  Wharton  James  and 

hear  and  listen  to  him  as  he  relates  the  story  of 

Ramona  and  her  baskets,  your  heart  will  go  out 

to  all  humanity  in  a  universal  sympathy,  and  love 

will  possess  your  soul. 

James  has  lived  alone  in  the  mountains  and  on  the 

plains,  and  for  six  months  has  never  seen  a  white 

person.  The  man  who  can  live  alone  must  be  in 

good  company  in  order  to  enjoy.  Is  n't  that  so? 

C£  James  is  a  specimen.  He  can  run,  ride,  swim, 

work  and  play.  He  eats  like  a  hired  man  and 

sleeps  like  a  baby.  He  has  the  child-heart,  the 

body  of  a  strong  man,  the  mind  of  a  prophet,  and 

the  soul  of  a  god. 

47 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  That  is  a  combination  we  would  all  like  to  be, 
MILLER  and  may,  if  we  get  ourselves  in  harmony  with  the 
Infinite. 

Let 's  be  men. 

ELBERT  HUBBARD. 


48 


THE   POEMS 


THE  POEMS 

SELECTIONS  from  Joaquin Miller's  "Com 
plete  Poetical  Works,"  published  by  Whit- 
aker   &    Ray  Company,  San   Francisco, 
California,    to  whom  sincere  thanks  are 
tendered  for  their  kind  permission  to  republish 
here. 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 

'Mid  white  Sierras,  that  slope  to  the  sea, 
Lie  turbulent  lands.  Go  dwell  in  the  skies, 
And  the  thundering  tongues  of  Yosemite 
Shall  persuade  you  to  silence,  and  you  shall  be 
wise. 

I  but  sing  for  the  love  of  song  and  the  few 
Who  loved  me  first  and  shall  love  me  last ; 
And  the  storm  shall  pass  as  the  storms  have 

pass'd, 

For  never  were  clouds  but  the  sun  came  through. 

49 


JOAQUIN  KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE 

Room  f  room  to  turn  round  in,  to  breathe  and  be  free, 
To  grow  to  be  giant,  to  sail  as  at  sea 
With  the  speed  of  the  wind  on  a  steed  with  his  mane 
To  the  wind,  without  pathway  or  route  or  a  rein. 
Room!  room  to  be  free  where  the  white  border'd  sea 
Blows  a  kiss  to  a  brother  as  boundless  as  he; 
Where  the  buffalo  come  like  a  cloud  on  the  plain, 
Pouring  on  like  the  tide  of  a  storm  driven  main, 
And  the  lodge  of  the  hunter  to  friend  or  to  foe 
Offers  rest;  and  unquestion'd  you  come  or  you  go. 
My  plains  of  America !  Seas  of  wild  lands ! 
From  a  land  in  the  seas  in  a  raiment  of  foam, 
That  has  reached  to  a  stranger  the  welcome  of  home, 
I  turn  to  you,  lean  to  you,  lift  you  my  hands. 
London,  1871. 

Run  ?  Run  ?  See  this  flank,  sir,  and  I  do  love  him 

so! 
But  he  's  blind  as  a  badger.  Whoa,  Pache,  boy, 

whoa. 

No,  you  would  n't  believe  it  to  look  at  his  eyes, 
But  he  's  blind,  badger  blind,  and  it  happen'd  this 

wise: 

50 


PREACHE 


We  lay  in  the  grass  and  the  sunburnt  clover          JOAQUIN 
That  spread  on  the  ground  like  a  great  brown  MILLER 

cover 

Northward  and  southward,  and  west  and  away 
To  the  Brazos,  where  our  lodges  lay, 
One  broad  and  unbroken  level  of  brown. 
We  were  waiting  the  curtains  of  night  to  come 

down 

To  cover  us  trio  and  conceal  our  flight 
With  my  brown  bride,  won  from  an  Indian  town 
That  lay  in  the  rear  the  full  ride  of  a  night. 

We  lounged  in  the  grass  —  her   eyes  were  in 

mine, 
And  her  hands  on  my  knee,  and  her  hair  was  as 

wine 

In  its  wealth  and  its  flood,  pouring  on  and  all  over 
Her  bosom  wine  red,  and  press'd  never  by  one. 
Her  touch  was  as  warm  as  the  tinge  of  the  clover 
Burnt  brown  as  it  reach'd  to  the  kiss  of  the  sun. 
Her  words  they  were  low  as  the  lute-throated 

dove, 

And  as  laden  with  love  as  the  heart  when  it  beats 

51 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  In  its  hot,  eager  answer  to  earliest  love, 
MILLER  Or  the  bee  hurried  home  by  its  burthen  of  sweets. 

We  lay  low  in  the  grass  on  the  broad  plain  levels, 
Old  Revels  and  I,  and  my  stolen  brown  bride ; 
"Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot  to  ride! 
Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot,  and  the  devils 
Of  red  Comanches  are  hot  on  the  track 
When  once  they  strike  it.  Let  the  sun  go  down 
Soon,  very  soon,"  muttered  bearded  old  Revels 
As  he  peer'd  at  the  sun,  lying  low  on  his  back, 
Holding  fast  to  his  lasso.  Then  he  jerk'd  at  his 

steed 
And  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  glanced  swiftly 

around, 
And  then  dropp'd,  as  if  shot,  with  an  ear  to  the 

ground ; 

Then  again  to  his  feet,  and  to  me,  to  my  bride, 
While  his  eyes  were  like  flame,  his  face  like  a 

shroud, 

His  form  like  a  king  and  his  beard  like  a  cloud, 
And  his  voice  loud  and  shrill,  as  both  trumpet  and 

reed, — 

52 


"Pull,  pull  in  your  lassoes,  and  bridle  to  steed,  JOAQUIN 
And  speed  you  if  ever  for  life  you  would  speed.  MILLER 
Aye,  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives  you  must 

ride! 

For  the  plain  is  aflame,  the  prairie  on  fire, 
And  the  feet  of  wild  horses  hard  flying  before 
I  hear  like  a  sea  breaking  high  on  the  shore, 
While  the  buffalo  come  like  a  surge  of  the  sea, 
Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving  fast  on  us  three 
As  a  hurricane  comes,  crushing  palms  in  his  ire." 

We  drew  in  the  lassoes,  seized  saddle  and  rein, 
Threw  them  on,  cinched  them  on,  cinched  them 

over  again, 

And  again  drew  the  girth ;  and  spring  we  to  horse, 
With  head  to  the  Brazos,  with  a  sound  in  the  air 
Like  the  surge  of  a  sea,  with  a  flash  in  the  eye, 
From  that  red  wall  of  flame  reaching  up  to  the 

sky; 

A  red  wall  of  flame  and  a  black  rolling  sea 
Rushing  fast  upon  us,  as  the  wind  sweeping  free 
And  afar   from   the  desert  blown  hollow  and 

hoarse. 

53 


JOAQUIN  Not  a  word,  not  a  wail  from  a  lip  was  let  fall, 
MILLER  We  broke  not  a  whisper,  we  breathed  not  a 

prayer, 
There  was  work  to  be  done,  there  was  death  in 

the  air, 
And  the  chance  was  as  one  to  a  thousand  for  all. 

Twenty  miles !  —  thirty  miles !  —  a  dim  distant 

speck .... 

Then  a  long  reaching  line,  and  the  Brazos  in  sight ! 
And  I  rose  in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of  delight. 
I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  look'd  to  my  right — 
But  Revels  was  gone;  I  glanced  by  my  shoulder 
And  saw  his  horse  stagger ;  I  saw  his  head  droop 
ing 
Hard  down  on  his  breast,  and  his  naked  breast 

stooping 

Low  down  to  the  mane,  as  so  swifter  and  bolder 
Ran  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed  fire. 
He  rode  neck  to  neck  with  a  buffalo  bull, 
That  made  the  earth  shake  where  he  came  in  his 

course, 

The  monarch  of  millions,  with  shaggy  mane  full 

54 


Of  smoke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with  desire  J  O  A  Q  U I N 
Of  battle,  with  rage  and  with  bello wings  hoarse.   MILLER 
His  keen,  crooked  horns,  through  the  storm  of  his 

mane, 

Like  black  lances  lifted  and  lifted  again ; 
And  I  looked  but  this  once,  for  the  fire  licked 

through, 
And  Revels  was  gone,  as  we  rode  two  and  two. 

I  look'd  to  my  left  then — and  nose,  neck,  and 

shoulder 

Sank  slowly,  sank  surely,  till  back  to  my  thighs, 
And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of  her 

hair 

Did  beam  full  in  mine  her  two  marvelous  eyes, 
With  a  longing  and  love  yet  a  look  of  despair 
And  of  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoke  fold  her, 
And  flames  leaping  far  for  her  glorious  hair. 
Her  sinking  horse  falter'd,  plunged,  fell  and  was 

gone 

As  I  reach'd  through  the  flame  and  I  bore  her  still  on. 
On !  into  the  Brazos,  she,  Pache  and  I — 
Poor,  burnt,  blinded  Pache.  I  love  him.That's  why. 

55 


JOAQUIN  JUANITA 

MILLER  You  will  come  my  bird,  Bonita  ? 

Come !  For  I  by  steep  and  stone 
Have  built  such  nest  for  you,  Juanita, 
As  not  eagle  bird  hath  known. 

Rugged!  Rugged  as  Parnassus! 
Rude,  as  all  roads  I  have  trod — 
Yet  are  steeps  and  stone-strewn  passes 
Smooth  o'er  head,  and  nearest  God. 

Here  black  thunders  of  my  canyon 
Shake  its  walls  in  Titan  wars ! 
Here  white  sea-born  clouds  companion 
With  such  peaks  as  know  the  stars ! 

Here  madrona,  manzanita — 
Here  the  snarling  chaparral 
House  and  hang  o'er  steeps,  Juanita, 
Where  the  gaunt  wolf  loved  to  dwell ! 

Dear,  I  took  these  trackless  masses 
Fresh  from  Him  who  fashioned  them ; 
Wrought  in  rock,  and  hewed  fair  passes, 
Flower  set,  as  sets  a  gem. 
56 


Aye,  I  built  in  woe.  God  willed  it ;  J  O  A  Q  U I N 

Woe  that  passeth  ghosts  of  guilt ; 
Yet  I  built  as  His  birds  builded — 
Builded,  singing  as  I  built. 

All  is  finished !  Roads  of  flowers 
Wait  your  loyal  little  feet. 
All  completed  ?  Nay,  the  hours 
Till  you  come  are  incomplete. 

Steep  below  me  lies  the  valley, 
Deep  below  me  lies  the  town, 
Where  great  sea-ships  ride  and  rally, 
And  the  world  walks  up  and  down. 

O,  the  sea  of  lights  far  streaming 
When  the  thousand  flags  are  furled — 
When  the  gleaming  bay  lies  dreaming 
As  it  duplicates  the  world ! 

You  will  come  my  dearest,  truest  ? 
Come  my  sovereign  queen  of  ten ; 
My  blue  skies  will  then  be  bluest ; 
My  white  rose  be  whitest  then : 
57 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  Then  the  song !  Ah,  then  the  saber 

MILLER  Flashing  up  the  walls  of  night ! 

Hate  of  wrong  and  love  of  neighbor — 
Rhymes  of  battle  for  the  Right ! 

YOSEMITE 
Sound!  sound!  sound! 
O  colossal  walls  and  crown'd 
In  one  eternal  thunder! 
Sound!  sound!  sound! 
O  ye  oceans  overhead, 
While  we  walk,  subdued  in  wonder, 
In  the  ferns  and  grasses,  under 
And  beside  the  swift  Merced ! 

Fret!  fret!  fret! 

Streaming,  sounding  banners,  set 
On  the  giant  granite  castles 
In  the  clouds  and  in  the  snow! 
But  the  foe  he  comes  not  yet, — 
We  are  loyal,  valiant  vassals, 
And  we  touch  the  trailing  tassels 
Of  the  banners  far  below. 
58 


Surge!  surge!  surge!  JOAQUIN 

From  the  white  Sierra's  verge,  MILLER 

To  the  very  valley  blossom. 

Surge!  surge!  surge! 

Yet  the  song-bird  builds  a  home, 

And  the  mossy  branches  cross  them, 

And  the  tasselled  tree-tops  toss  them, 

In  the  clouds  of  falling  foam. 

Sweep!  sweep!  sweep! 
O  ye  heaven-born  and  deep, 
In  one  dread,  unbroken  chorus ! 
We  may  wonder  or  may  weep, — 
We  may  wait  on  God  before  us ; 
We  may  shout  or  lift  a  hand, — 
We  may  bow  down  and  deplore  us, 
But  may  never  understand. 

Beat!  beat!  beat! 
We  advance,  but  would  retreat 
From  this  restless,  broken  breast 
Of  the  earth  in  a  convulsion. 
We  would  rest,  but  dare  not  rest, 
59 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  For  the  angel  of  expulsion 
From  this  Paradise  below 
Waves  us  onward  and we  go. 

ALASKA 

Ice  built,  ice  bound  and  ice  bounded, 
Such  cold  seas  of  silence !  such  room ! 
Such  snow-light,  such  sea-light  confounded 
With  thunders  that  smite  like  a  doom ! 
Such  grandeur!  such  glory!  such  gloom! 
Hear  that  boom!  Hear  that  deep  distant  boom 
Of  an  avalanche  hurled 
Down  this  unfinished  world ! 

Ice  seas !  and  ice  summits !  ice  spaces 
In  splendor  of  white,  as  God's  throne ! 
Ice  worlds  to  the  pole !  and  ice  places 
Untracked  and  unnamed,  and  unknown ! 
Hear  that  boom !  Hear  the  grinding,  the 

groan 

Of  the  ice-gods  in  pain !  Hear  the  moan 
Of  yon  ice  mountain  hurled 
Down  this  unfinished  world. 

60 


PETER  COOPER  JOAQUIN 

Died  1883  MILLER 

Give  honor  and  love  forevermore 
To  this  great  man  gone  to  rest ; 
Peace  on  the  dim  Plutonian  shore, 
Rest  in  the  land  of  the  blest. 

I  reckon  him  greater  than  any  man 
That  ever  drew  sword  in  war; 
I  reckon  him  nobler  than  king  or  khan, 
Braver  and  better  by  far. 

And  wisest  he  in  this  whole  wide  land 
Of  hoarding  till  bent  and  gray ; 
For  all  you  can  hold  in  your  cold  dead  hand 
Is  what  you  have  given  away. 

So  whether  to  wander  the  stars  or  to  rest 

Forever  hushed  and  dumb, 

He  gave  with  a  zest  and  he  gave  his  best — 

Give  him  the  best  to  come. 

61 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  THE  DEAD  MILLIONAIRE 

MILLER         The  gold  that  with  the  sunlight  lies 
In  bursting  heaps  at  dawn, 
The  silver  spilling  from  the  skies 
At  night  to  walk  upon, 
The  diamonds  gleaming  in  the  dew 
He  never  saw,  he  never  knew. 

He  got  some  gold,  dug  from  the  mud, 
Some  silver,  crushed  from  stones. 
The  gold  was  red  with  dead  men's  blood, 
The  silver  black  with  groans ; 
And  when  he  died  he  moaned  aloud, 
'There  '11  be  no  pocket  in  my  shroud." 

TO  THE  JERSEY  LILY 
If  all  God's  world  a  garden  were, 
And  women  were  but  flowers. 
If  men  were  bees  that  busied  there, 
Through  endless  summer  hours, 
O  I  would  hum  God's  garden  through 

For  honey  till  I  came  to  you. 
62 


TO  THE  CZAR  JOAQUIN 

Down  from  her  high  estate  she  stept, 
A  maiden,  gently  born, 
And  by  the  icy  Volga  kept 
Sad  watch  and  waited  morn ; 
And  peasants  say  that  where  she  slept 
The  new  moon  dipt  her  horn. 
Yet  on  and  on,  through  shoreless  snows, 
Far  tow'rd  the  bleak  north  pole, 
The  foulest  wrong  the  good  God  knows 
Rolled  as  dark  rivers  roll ; 
While  never  once  for  all  their  woes 
Upspake  your  ruthless  soul. 

She  toiled,  she  taught  the  peasant,  taught 
The  dark-eyed  Tartar.  He, 
Illumined  with  her  lofty  thought, 
Rose  up  and  sought  to  be, 
What  God  at  the  creation  wrought, 
A  man !  God-like  and  free. 
Yet  still  before  him  yawned  the  black 
Siberian  mines!  And  oh, 
The  knout  upon  the  bare  white  back ! 

63 


JOAQUIN  The  blood  upon  the  snow 
MILLER  The  gaunt  wolves,  close  u 
Fought  o'er  the  fallen  so ! 


The  gaunt  wolves,  close  upon  the  track, 
Fought  o'er  the  fallen  so  ! 

And  this  that  one  might  wear  a  crown 

Snatched  from  a  strangled  sire! 

And  this  that  two  might  mock  or  frown, 

From  high  thrones  climbing  higher  — 

From  where  the  Parricide  looked  down 

With  harlot  in  desire  ! 

Yet  on,  beneath  the  great  north  star, 

Like  some  lost,  living  thing, 

That  long  dread  line  stretched,  black  and  far 

Till  buried  by  death's  wing  ! 

And  great  men  praised  the  goodly  Czar  — 

But  God  sat  pitying. 


A  storm  burst  forth  !  From  out  the  storm 
The  clean,  red  lightning  leapt, 
And  lo,  a  prostrate  royal  form  ---- 
And  Alexander  slept! 
Down  through  the  snow,  all  smoking,  warm 

64 


Like  any  blood,  his  crept. 

Yea,  one  lay  dead,  for  millions  dead ! 

One  red  spot  in  the  snow 

For  one  long  damning  line  of  red, 

Where  exiles  endless  go — 

The  babe  at  breast,  the  mother's  head 

Bowed  down,  and  dying  so. 

And  did  a  woman  do  this  deed? 

Then  build  her  scaffold  high, 

That  all  may  on  her  forehead  read 

The  martyr's  right  to  die ! 

Ring  Cossack  round  on  royal  steed ! 

Now  lift  her  to  the  sky ! 

But  see !  From  out  the  black  hood  shines 

A  light  few  look  upon ! 

Lorn  exiles,  see,  from  dark,  deep  mines, 

A  star  at  burst  of  dawn !  — 

A  thud !  A  creak  of  hangman's  lines ! — 

A  frail  shape  jerked  and  drawn !  — 

The  Czar  is  dead ;  the  woman  dead, 

65 


JOAQUIN  About  her  neck  a  cord. 
MILLER  In  God's  house  rests  his  royal  head — 
Hers  in  a  place  abhorred ; 
Yet  I  had  rather  have  her  bed 
Than  thine,  most  royal  lord ! 
Aye,  rather  be  that  woman  dead, 
Than  thee,  dead-living  Czar, 
To  hide  in  dread,  with  both  hands  red, 

Behind  great  bolt  and  bar 

You  may  control  to  the  North  Pole, 
But  God  still  guides  the  star. 

THE  PASSING  OF  TENNYSON 

My  kingly  kinsmen,  kings  of  thought, 
I  hear  your  gathered  symphonies, 

Such  nights  as  when  the  world  is  not, 
And  great  stars  chorus  through  my  trees. 

We  knew  it,  as  God's  prophets  knew; 
We  knew  it,  as  mute  red  men  know, 
When  Mars  leapt  searching  heaven  through 
With  flaming  torch,  that  he  must  go. 
Then  Browning,  he  who  knew  the  stars, 
Stood  forth  and  faced  insatiate  Mars. 

66 


Then  up  from  Cambridge  rose  and  turned  JOAQUIN 

Sweet  Lowell  from  his  Druid  trees—  MILLER 

Turned  where  the  great  star  blazed  and  burned, 

As  if  his  own  soul  might  appease. 

Yet  on  and  on  through  all  the  stars 

Still  searched  and  searched  insatiate  Mars. 

Then  stanch  Walt  Whitman  saw  and  knew  ; 
Forgetful  of  his  "Leaves  of  Grass," 
He  heard  his  "  Drum  Taps,"  and  God  drew 
His  great  soul  through  the  shining  pass, 
Made  light,  made  bright  by  burnished  stars  ; 
Made  scintillant  from  flaming  Mars. 

Then  soft-voiced  Whittier  was  heard 

To  cease  ;  was  heard  to  sing  no  more. 

As  you  have  heard  some  sweetest  bird 

The  more  because  its  song  is  o'er. 

Yet  brighter  up  the  street  of  stars 

Still  blazed  and  burned  and  beckoned  Mars  : 


And  then  the  king  came  ;  king  of  thought, 

67 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  King  David  with  his  harp  and  crown 

£R  How  wisely  well  the  gods  had  wrought 
That  these  had  gone  and  sat  them  down 
To  wait  and  welcome  mid  the  stars 
All  silent  in  the  light  of  Mars. 

All  silent ....  So,  he  lies  in  state .... 
Our  redwoods  drip  and  drip  with  rain .... 
Against  our  rock-lined  Golden  Gate 
We  hear  the  great,  sad,  sobbing  main. 

But  silent  all He  passed  the  stars 

That  year  the  whole  world  turned  to  Mars. 

COLUMBUS 

Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 
Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules ; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores ; 
Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said :  "  Now  must  we  pray, 
For  lo !  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  AdmYl,  speak;  what  shall  I  say?" 

*  Why,  say :  '  Sail  on !  sail  on !  and  on ! ' 

68 


"  My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day; 
My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak." 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home ;  a  spray 
Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"  What  shall  I  say,  brave  AdmYl,  say, 
If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?" 
"Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day: 
*  Sail  on !  sail  on !  sail  on !  and  on ! ' 

They  sailed  and  sailed  as  winds  might  blow, 
Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said : 
*  Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know 
Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 
For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 
Now  speak,  brave  AdmYl ;  speak  and  say — " 
He  said :  "  Sail  on !  sail  on !  and  on ! " 

They  sailed.  They  sailed.  Then  spake  the 

mate: 

'  This  mad  sea  shows  his  teeth  to-night. 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 
With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite! 
69 


Brave  AdmYl,  say  but  one  good  word : 
What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone?" 
The  words  leapt  like  a  flaming  sword : 
"Sail  on!  sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!" 

THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  REAL 

And  full  these  truths  eternal 
O'er  the  yearning  spirit  steal, 
That  the  real  is  the  ideal, 
And  the  ideal  is  the  real. 

She  was  damn'd  with  the  dower  of  beauty,  she 
Had  gold  in  shower  by  shoulder  and  brow. 
Her  feet ! — why,  her  two  blessed  feet,  were  so  small, 
They  could  nest  in  this  hand.  Howqueenly,  how  tall, 
How  gracious,  how  grand !  She  was  all  to  me, — 
My  present,  my  past,  my  eternity ! 

She  but  lives  in  my  dreams.  I  behold  her  now 
By  shoreless  white  waters  that  flow'd  like  a  sea 
At  her  feet  where  I  sat ;  her  lips  push'd  out 
In  brave,  warm  welcome  of  dimple  and  pout ! 
f T  was  aeons  agone.  By  that  river  that  ran 
All  fathomless,  echoless,  limitless,  on. 

70 


•J 

Ul 
K 

0 


Kg 

0  5 


UJ 


And  shoreless,  and  peopled  with  never  a  man, 

We  met,  soul  to  soul No  land;  yet  I  think  MILLER 

There  were  willows  and  lilies  that  lean'd  to  drink. 
The  stars  they  were  seal'd  and  the  moons  were 

gone. 

The  wide  shining  circles  that  girdled  that  world, 
They  were  distant  and  dim.  And  an  incense  curl'd 
In  vapory  folds  from  that  river  that  ran 
All  shoreless,  with  never  the  presence  of  man. 

How  sensuous  the  night ;  how  soft  was  the  sound 
Of  her  voice  on  the  night !  How  warm  was  her 

breath 

In  that  world  that  had  never  yet  tasted  of  death 
Or  forbidden  sweet  fruit !  —  In  that  far  profound 

We  were  camped  on  the  edges  of  god-land.  We 
Were  the  people  of  Saturn.  The  watery  fields, 
The  wide-wing'd,  dolorous  birds  of  the  sea, 
They  acknowledged  but  us.  Our  brave  battle 

shields 

Were  my  naked  white  palms ;  our  food  it  was  love. 
Our  roof  was  the  fresco  of  gold  belts  above. 

71 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  How  turn'd  she  to  me  where  that  wide  river  ran, 
MILLER  With  its  lilies  and  willows  and  watery  reeds, 

And  heeded  as  only  your  true  love  heeds ! 

How  tender  she  was,  and  how  timid  she  was ! 
But  a  black,  hoofed  beast,  with  the  head  of  a 

man, 

Stole  down  where  she  sat  at  my  side,  and  began 
To  puff  his  tan  cheeks,  then  to  play,  then  to  pause, 
With  his  double-reed  pipes ;  then  to  play  and  to 

play 

As  never  played  man  since  the  world  began, 
And  never  shall  play  till  the  judgment  day. 

How  he  puff'd!  how  he  play'd!  Then  down  the 

dim  shore, 

This  half-devil  man,  all  hairy  and  black, 
Did  dance  with  his  hoofs  in  the  sand,  laughing 

back 

As  his  song  died  away ....  She  turned  never  more 
Unto  me  after  that.  She  rose,  and  she  pass'd 
Right  on  from  my  sight.  Then  I  followed  as  fast 
As  true  love  can  follow.  But  ever  before 
Like  a  spirit  she  fled.  How  vain  and  how  far 

72 


Did  I  follow  my  beauty,  red  belt  or  white  star!  JO 
Through  foamy  white  sea,  unto  fruit  laden  shore !  M 1 

How  long  I  did  follow !  My  pent  soul  of  fire 
It  did  feed  on  itself.  I  fasted,  I  cried ; 
Was  tempted  by  many.  Yet  still  I  denied 

The  touch  of  all  things,  and  kept  my  desire 

I  stood  by  the  lion  of  St.  Mark  in  that  hour 
Of  Venice  when  gold  of  the  sunset  is  roll'd 
From  cloud  to  cathedral,  from  turret  to  tower, 
In  matchless,  magnificent  garments  of  gold ; 
Then  I  knew  she  was  near ;  yet  I  had  not  known 
Her  form  or  her  face  since  the  stars  were  sown. 

We  two  had  been  parted — God  pity  us ! — when 
This  world  was  unnamed  and  all  heaven  was  dim ; 
We  two  had  been  parted  far  back  on  the  rim 
And  the  outermost  border  of  heaven's  red  bars ; 
We  two  had  been  parted  ere  the   meeting  of 

men, 

Or  God  had  set  compass  on  spaces  as  yet; 
We  two  had  been  parted  ere  God  had  once  set 
His  finger  to  spinning  the  purple  with  stars, — 

73 


JOAQUIN  And  now  at  the  last  in  the  sea  and  fret 
MILLER  Of  the  sun  of  Venice,  we  two  had  met. 

Where  the  lion  of  Venice,  with  brows  a-frown, 
With  tossed  mane  tumbled,  and  teeth  in  air, 
Looks  out  in  his  watch  o'er  the  watery  town, 
With  paw  half  lifted,  with  claws  half  bare, 
By  the  blue  Adriatic,  at  her  bath  in  the  sea,— 
I  saw  her.  I  knew  her,  but  she  knew  not  me. 
I  had  found  her  at  last !  Why  I,  I  had  sail'd 
The  antipodes  through,  had  sought,  and  had  hail'd 
All  flags ;  I  had  climbed  where  the  storm  clouds 

curl'd, 
And  call'd  o'er  the  awful  arch'd  dome  of  the 

world. 

I  saw  her  one  moment,  then  fell  back  abash'd, 
And  fill'd  to  the  throat Then  I  turn'd  me  once 

more, 
Thanking  God  in  my  soul,  while  the  level   sun 

flashed 
Happy  halos  about  her  —  Her  breast ! — why,  her 

breast 

74 


THE  FRIENDS 


Was  white  as  twin  pillows  that  lure  you  to  rest.  JOAQL 
Her  sloping  limbs  moved  like  to  melodies  told, 
As  she  rose  from  the  sea,  and  threw  back  the 

gold 

Of  her  glorious  hair,  and  set  face  to  the  shore .... 
I  knew  her!  I  knew  her,  though  we  had  not  met 
Since  the  red  stars  sang  to  the  sun's  first  set ! 

How  long  I  had  sought  her !  I  had  hunger'd,  nor 

ate 

Of  any  sweet  fruits.  I  had  followed  not  one 
Of  all  the  fair  glories  grown  under  the  sun. 
I  had  sought  only  her,  believing  that  she 
Had  come  upon  earth,  and  stood  waiting  for  me 
Somewhere  by  my  way.  But  the  pathways  of  Fate 
They  had  led  otherwhere ;  the  round  world  round, 
The  far  North  seas  and  the  near  profound 
Had  fail'd  me  for  aye.  Now  I  stood  by  that  sea 
Where  she  bathed  in  her  beauty,  —  God,  I  and 

she! 

I  spake  not,  but  caught  in  my  breath ;  I  did  raise 
My  face  to  fair  heaven  to  give  God  praise 

75 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  That  at  last,  ere  the  ending  of  Time,  we  had  met, 
MILLER  Had  touch'd  upon  earth  at  the  same  sweet 

place .... 

Yea,  we  never  had  met  since  creation  at  all ; 
Never,  since  ages  ere  Adam's  fall, 
Had  we  two  met  in  that  hunger  and  fret 
Where  two  should  be  one,  but  had  wander'd 

through  space ; 
Through  space  and  through  spheres,  as  some  bird 

that  hard  fate 
Gives  a  thousand  glad  Springs  but  never  one 

mate. 

Was  it  well  with  my  love?  Was  she  true?  Was 

she  brave 

With  virtue's  own  valor  ?  Was  she  waiting  for  me  ? 
Oh,  how  fared  my  love  ?  Had  she  home  ?  Had 

she  bread? 
Had  she  known  but  the  touch  of  the  warm- 

temper'd  wave? 
Was  she  born  to  this  world  with  a  crown  on  her 

head, 

Or  born,  like  myself,  but  a  dreamer  instead  ?  — 

76 


So  long  it  had  been!  So  long!  Why,  the  sea—  JOAQUIN 
That  wrinkled  and  surly,  old,  time-temper'd 

slave — 
Had  been  born,  had  his  revels,  grown  wrinkled 

and  hoar 
Since  I  last  saw  my  love  on  that  uttermost  shore. 

Oh,  how  fared  my  love  ?  Once  I  lifted  my  face, 
And  I  shook  back  my  hair  and  look'd  out  on  the 

sea; 

I  press'd  my  hot  palms  as  I  stood  in  my  place, 
And  I  cried,  "Oh,  I  come  like  a  king  to  your 

side 
Though  all  hell  intervene ! "  —  "  Hist !  she  may 

be  a  bride, 

A  mother  at  peace,  with  sweet  babes  at  her  knee ! 
A  babe  at  her  breast  and  a  spouse  at  her  side ! — 
Had  I  wander'd  too  long,  and  had  Destiny 
Set  mortal  between  us?"  I  buried  my  face 
In  my  hands,  and  I  moan'd  as  I  stood  in  my  place. 

'T  was  her  year  to  be  young.  She  was  tall,  she 
was  fair — 

77 


J  O  AQUIN  Was  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over 
MILLER          there? 

*T  was  her  year  to  be  young.  She  was  queenly 

and  tall; 

And  I  felt  she  was  true,  as  I  lifted  my  face 
And  saw  her  press  down  her  rich  robe  to  its 

place, 
With  a  hand  white  and  small  as  a  babe's  with  a 

doll. 
And  her  feet ! — why,  her  feet  in  the  white  shining 

sand 
Were  so  small,  't  was  a  wonder  the  maiden  could 

stand. 
Then  she  push'd  back  her  hair  with  a  round 

hand  that  shone 
And  flash'd  in  the  light  with  a  white  starry  stone. 

Then  my  love  she  is  rich!  My  love  she  is  fair! 
Is  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over  there  ? 
She  is  gorgeous  with  wealth!  "Thank  God,  she 

has  bread," 

I  said  to  myself.  Then  I  humbled  my  head 
In  gratitude  deep.  Then  I  question'd  me  where 

78 


Was  her  palace,  her  parents?  What  name  did      JOAQUIN 
she  bear?  MILLER 

What  mortal  on  earth  came  nearest  her  heart? 

Who  touch'd  the  small  hand  till  it  thrill'd  to  a 
smart  ? 

'T  was  her  year  to  be  young.  She  was  rich,  she 
was  fair — 

Was  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over  there  ? 

Then  she  loosed  her  rich  robe  that  was  blue  like 

the  sea, 

And  silken  and  soft  as  a  baby's  new  born. 
And  my  heart  it  leap'd  light  as  the  sunlight  at 

morn 

At  the  sight  of  my  love  in  her  proud  purity, 
As  she  rose  like  a  Naiad  half-robed  from  the 

sea. 

Then  careless  and  calm  as  an  empress  can  be 
She  loosed  and  let  fall  all  the  raiment  of  blue, 
As  she  drew  a  white  robe  in  a  melody 
Of  moving  white  limbs,  while  between  the  two, 
Like  a  rift  in  the  cloud,  shone  her  fair  presence 

through. 

79 


JOAQUIN  Soon  she  turn'd,  reach'd  a  hand;  then  a  tall 
MILLER  gondolier 

Who  had  lean'd  on  his  oar,  like  a  long  lifted 

spear, 

Shot  sudden  and  swift  and  all  silently, 
And  drew  to  her  side  as  she  turn'd  from  the  tide. 
It  was  odd,  such  a  thing,  and  I  counted  it  queer 
That  a  princess  like  this,  whether  virgin  or  bride, 
Should  abide  thus  apart  as  she  bathed  in  the  sea ; 
And  I  chafed  and  I  chafed,  and  so  unsatisfied, 
That  I  flutter'd  the  doves  that  were  perch'd  close 

about, 
As  I  strode  up  and  down  in  dismay  and  in  doubt. 

Swift  she  stept  in  the  boat  on  the  borders  of  night 
As  an  angel  might  step  on  that  far  wonder  land 
Of  eternal  sweet  life,  which  men  mis-name  Death. 
Quick  I  called  me  a  craft,  and  I  caught  at  my 

breath 

As  she  sat  in  the  boat,  and  her  white  baby  hand 
Held  vestments  of  gold  to  her  throat,  snowy 

white. 

Then  her  gondola  shot, — shot  sharp  for  the  shore : 

80 


There  was  never  the  sound  of  a  song  or  of  oar,  J  O  A  Q  U I N 
But  the  doves  hurried  home  in  white  clouds  to 

Saint  Mark, 
Where  the  brass  horses  plunge  their  high  manes 

in  the  dark. 

Then  I  cried:  "Follow  fast!  Follow  fast!  Follow 

fast! 

Aye !  thrice  double  fare,  if  you  follow  her  true 
To  her  own  palace  door ! "  There  was  plashing 

of  oar 

And  rattle  of  rowlock 1  sat  peering  through, 

Looking  far  in  the  dark,  peering  out  as  we  passed 
With  my  soul  all  alert,  bending  down,  leaning  low. 
But  only  the  oaths  of  the  fisherman's  crew 
When  we  jostled  them  sharp  as  we  sudden  shot 

through 

The  watery  town.  Then  a  deep,  distant  roar — 
The  rattle  of  rowlock ;  the  rush  of  the  oar. 

The  rattle  of  rowlock,  the  rush  of  the  sea 

Swift  wind  like  a  sword  at  the  throat  of  us  all ! 
I  lifted  my  face,  and,  far,  fitfully 

81 


JOAQUIN  The  heavens  breathed  lightning;  did  lift  and  let 
MILLER  fall 

As  if  angels  were  parting  God's  curtains.  Then 

deep 

And  indolent-like,  and  as  if  half  asleep, 
As  if  half  made  angry  to  move  at  all, 
The  thunder  moved.  It  confronted  me. 
It  stood  like  an  avalanche  poised  on  a  hill, 
I  saw  its  black  brows.  I  heard  it  stand  still. 

The  troubled  sea  throbb'd  as  if  rack'd  with  pain. 
Then  the  black  clouds  rose  and  suddenly  rode, 
As  a  fiery,  fierce  stallion  that  knows  no  rein ; 
Right  into  the  town.  Then  the  thunder  strode 
As  a  giant  striding  from  star  to  red  star, 
Then  turn'd  upon  earth  and  frantically  came, 
Shaking  the  hollow  heaven.  And  far 
And  near  red  lightning  in  ribbon  and  skin 
Did  seam  and  furrow  the  cloud  with  flame, 
And  write  on  black  heaven  Jehovah's  name. 

Then  lightnings  came  weaving  like  shuttlecocks, 
Weaving  rent  robes  of  black  clouds  for  death. 

82 


SANDY,  BRUDDER  AND  THE  SCRIBE 


And  frightened  doves  fluttered  them  home  in         J  O  A  Q  U I N 

flocks,  MILLER 

And  mantled  men  hied  them  with  gather'd  breath. 
Black  gondolas  scattered  as  never  before, 
And  drew  like  crocodiles  up  on  the  shore ; 
And  vessels  at  sea  stood  further  at  sea, 
And  seamen  haul'd  with  a  bended  knee, 
And  canvas  came  down  to  left  and  to  right, 
Till  ships  stood  stripp'd  as  if  stripp'd  for  fight ! 

Then  an  oath.  Then  a  prayer.  Then  a  gust,  with 

rents 

Through  the  yellow  sail'd  fishers.  Then  suddenly 
Came  sharp  fork'd  fire!  Then  again  thunder  fell 
Like  the  great  first  gun !  Ah,  then  there  was  rout 
Of  ships  like  the  breaking  of  regiments, 
And  shouts  as  if  hurled  from  an  upper  hell. 

Then  tempest !  It  lifted,  it  spun  us  about, 
Then  shot  us  ahead  through  the  hills  of  the  sea 
As  a  great  steel  arrow  shot  shoreward  in  wars — 
Then  the  storm  split  open  till  I  saw  the  blown 
stars. 

83 


JOAQUIN  On!  on!  through  the  foam!  through  the  storm! 
MILLER  through  the  town ! 

She  was  gone !  She  was  lost  in  that  wilderness 
Of  leprous  white  palaces  —  Black  distress ! 
I  stood  in  my  gondola.  All  up  and  all  down 
We  pushed  through  the  surge  of  the  salt-flood  street 

Above  and  below *  T  was  only  the  beat 

Of  the  sea's  sad  heart 1  leaned,  listened ;  I 

sat .... 

'T  was  only  the  water-rat ;  nothing  but  that ; 
Not  even  the  sea-bird  screaming  distress, 
As  she  lost  her  way  in  that  wilderness. 

I  listened  all  night.  I  caught  at  each  sound ; 
I  clutch'd  and  I  caught  as  a  man  that  drown'd — 
Only  the  sullen,  low  growl  of  the  sea 
Far  out  the  flood-street  at  the  edge  of  the  ships ; 
Only  the  billow  slow  licking  his  lips, 
A  dog  that  lay  crouching  there  watching  for  me, — 
Growling  and  showing  white  teeth  all  the  night ; 
Only  a  dog,  and  as  ready  to  bite ; 
Only  the  waves  with  their  salt-flood  tears 
Fretting  white  stones  of  a  thousand  years. 

84 


And  then  a  white  dome  in  the  loftiness  JOAQUIN 

Of  cornice  and  cross  and  of  glittering  spire 

That  thrust  to  heaven  and  held  the  fire 

Of  the  thunder  still ;  the  bird's  distress 

As  he  struck  his  wings  in  that  wilderness, 

On  marbles  that  speak,  and  thrill,  and  inspire, — 

The  night  below  and  the  night  above ; 

The  water-rat  building,  the  sea-lost  dove ; 

That  one  lost,  dolorous,  lone  bird's  call, 

The  water-rat  building, — but  that  was  all. 

Silently,  slowly,  still  up  and  still  down, 
We  row'd  and  we  row'd  for  many  an  hour, 
By  beetling  palace  and  toppling  tower, 
In  the  darks  and  the  deeps  of  the  watery 

town. 

Only  the  water-rat  building  by  stealth, 
Only  the  lone  bird  astray  in  his  flight 
That  struck  white  wings  in  the  clouds  of  night, 
On  spires  that  sprang  from  Queen  Adria's 

wealth ; 

Only  one  sea  dove,  one  lost  white  dove : 
The  blackness  below,  the  blackness  above ! 

85 


J  O  A  Q  U  I  N  Then,  pushing  the  darkness  from  pillar  to  post, 
MILLER  The  morning  came  sullen  and  gray  like  a  ghost 
Slow  up  the  canal.  I  lean'd  from  the  prow, 
And  listen'd.  Not  even  that  dove  in  distress 
Crying  its  way  through  the  wilderness  ; 
Not  even  the  stealthy  old  water-rat  now, 
Only  the  bell  in  the  fisherman's  tower, 
Slow  tolling  at  sea  and  telling  the  hour, 
To  kneel  to  their  sweet  Santa  Barbara 
For  tawny  fishers  at  sea,  and  to  pray. 


High  over  my  head,  carved  cornice,  quaint  spire, 
And  ancient  built  palaces  knock'd  their  gray 

brows 

Together  and  frown'd.  Then  slow-creeping  scows 
Scraped  the  walls  on  each  side.  Above  me  the 

fire 

Of  sudden-born  morning  came  flaming  in  bars  ; 
While  up  through  the  chasm  I  could  count  the 

stars. 

Oh,  pity  !  Such  ruin  !  The  dank  smell  of  death 
Crept  up  the  canal:  I  could  scarce  take  my  breath  ! 

86 


'T  was  the  fit  place  for  pirates,  for  women  who     JO  AQL 

keep  MILLER 

Contagion  of  body  and  soul  where  they  sleep .... 

God's  pity !  A  white  hand  now  beck'd  me 
From  an  old  mouldy  door,  almost  in  my  reach. 
1  sprang  to  the  sill  as  one  wrecked  to  a  beach ; 
I  sprang  with  wide  arms :  it  was  she !  it  was 

she!.... 
And  in  such  a  damn'd  place !  And  what  was  her 

trade  ? 

To  think  I  had  follow'd  so  faithful,  so  far 
From  eternity's  brink,  from  star  to  white  star, 
To  find  her,  to  find  her,  nor  wife  nor  sweet  maid ! 
To  find  her  a  shameless  poor  creature  of  shame, 
A  nameless,  lost  body,  men  hardly  dared  name. 

All  alone  in  her  shame,  on  that  damp,  dismal 

floor 

She  stood  to  entice  me  —  I  bow'd  me  before 
All-conquering  beauty.  I  call'd  her  my  Queen ! 
I  told  her  my  love  as  I  proudly  had  told 
My  love  had  I  found  her  as  pure  as  pure  gold. 

87 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  I  reach'd  her  my  hands,  as  fearless,  as  clean, 
MILLER  As  man  fronting  cannon.  I  cried,  "Hasten  forth 
To  the  sun !  There  are  lands  to  the  south,  to  the 

north, 
Anywhere  where  you  will.  Dash  the  shame  from 

your  brow ; 
Come  with  me,  for  ever ;  and  come  with  me  now ! " 

Why,  I  'd  have  turn'd  pirate  for  her,  would  have 

seen 
Ships  burn'd  from  the  seas,  like  to  stubble  from 

field. 
Would  I  turn  from  her  now  ?  Why  should  I  now 

yield, 
When  she  needed  me  most  ?  Had  I  found  her  a 

queen, 
And  beloved  by  the  world, — why,  what  had  I 

done? 
I  had  woo'd,  and  had  woo'd,  and  had  woo'd  till 

I  won! 

Then,  if  I  had  loved  her  with  gold  and  fair  fame, 
Would  not  I  now  love  her,  and  love  her  the 

same? 

88 


My  soul  hath  a  pride.  I  would  tear  out  my  heart  JOAQUIN 
And  cast  it  to  dogs,  could  it  play  a  dog's  part!      MILLER 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  my  bride  of  the  wide  world 
of  yore  ? 

Why,  don't  you  remember  the  white  milky-way 

Of  stars,  that  we  traversed  the  aeons  before  ?  — 

We  were  counting  the  colors,  we  were  naming 
the  seas 

Of  the  vaster  ones.  You  remember  the  trees 

That  sway'd  in  the  cloudy  white  heavens,  and 
bore 

Bright  crystals  of  sweets,  and  the  sweet  manna- 
dew? 

Why,  you  smile  as  you  weep,  you  remember,  and 
you, 

You  know  me !  You  know  me !  You  know  me ! 
Yea, 

You  know  me  as  if  't  were  but  yesterday ! " 

I  told  her  all  things.  Her  brow  took  a  frown ; 
Her  grand  Titian  beauty,  so  tall,  so  serene, 
The  one  perfect  woman,  mine  own  idol  queen — 

89 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  Her  proud  swelling  bosom,  it  broke  up  and  down 
MILLER  As  she  spake,  and  she  shook  in  her  soul  as  she 

said, 
With  her  small  hands  held  to  her  bent,  aching 

head: 

"  Go  back  to  the  world !  Go  back,  and  alone 
Till  kind  Death  comes  and  makes  white  his  own." 
I  said:  "I  will  wait!  I  will  wait  in  the  pass 
Of  death,  until  Time  he  shall  break  his  glass." 

Then  I  cried,  "Yea,  here  where  the  gods  did 

love, 

Where  the  white  Europa  was  won, — she  rode 
Her  milk-white  bull  through  these  same  warm 

seas, — 

Yea,  here  in  the  land  where  huge  Hercules, 
With  the  lion's  heart  and  the  heart  of  the  dove, 
Did  walk  in  his  naked  great  strength,  and  strode 
In  the  sensuous  air  with  his  lion's  skin 
Flapping  and  fretting  his  knotted  thews ; 
Where  Theseus  did  wander,  and  Jason 

cruise, — 

Yea,  here  let  the  life  of  all  lives  begin. 

90 


"Yea!  Here  where  the  Orient  balms  breathe 

life, 

Where  heaven  is  kindest,  where  all  God's  blue 
Seems  a  great  gate  open'd  to  welcome  you. 
Come,  rise  and  go  forth,  my  empress,  my  wife." 
Then  spake  her  great  soul,  so  grander  far 
Than  I  had  believed  on  that  outermost  star; 
And  she  put  by  her  tears,  and  calmly  she  said, 
With  hands  still  held  to  her  bended  head : 
"  I  will  go  through  the  doors  of  death  and  wait 
For  you  on  the  innermost  side  of  death's  gate. 

'  Thank  God  that  this  life  is  but  a  day's  span, 
But  a  wayside  inn  for  weary,  worn  man — 
A  night  and  a  day ;  and,  to-morrow,  the  spell 
Of  darkness  is  broken.  Now,  darling,  farewell ! " 
I  caught  at  her  robe  as  one  ready  to  die — 
"  Nay,  touch  not  the  hem  of  my  robe — it  is  red 
With  sins  that  your  own  sex  heap'd  on  my 

head! 

Now  turn  you,  yes,  turn !  But  remember  how  I 
Wait  weeping,  in  sackcloth,  the  while  I  wait 
Inside  death's  door,  and  watch  at  the  gate." 

91 


J  OAQUIN  I  cried  yet  again,  how  I  cried,  how  I  cried, 
MILLER  Reaching  face,  reaching  hands  as  a  drowning 

man  might. 

She  drew  herself  back,  put  my  two  hands  aside, 
Half  turned  as  she  spoke,  as  one  turned  to  the 

night : 
Speaking  low,  speaking  soft  as  a  wind  through 

the  wall 
Of  a  ruin  where  mold  and  night  masters  all : 

"I  shall  live  my  day,  live  patient  on  through 
The  life  that  man  hath  compelled  me  to, 
Then  turn  to  my  mother,  sweet  earth,  and 

pray 

She  keep  me  pure  to  the  Judgment  Day ! 
I  shall  sit  and  wait  as  you  used  to  do, 
Will  wait  the  next  life,  through  the  whole  life 

through. 

I  shall  sit  all  alone,  I  shall  wait  alway; 
I  shall  wait  inside  of  the  gate  for  you, 
Waiting,  and  counting  the  days  as  I  wait ; 
Yea,  wait  as  that  beggar  that  sat  by  the  gate 
Of  Jerusalem,  waiting  the  Judgment  Day." 

92 


THE  WORLD  IS  A  BETTER  WORLD         JOAQUIN 
Aye,  the  world  is  a  better  old  world  to-day!  MILLER 
And  a  great  good  mother  this  earth  of  ours; 
Her  white  to-morrows  are  a  white  stairway 
To  lead  us  up  to  the  star-lit  flowers — 
The  spiral  to-morrows  that  one  by  one 
We  climb  and  we  climb  in  the  face  of  the  sun. 

Aye,  the  world  is  a  braver  old  world  to-day ! 
For  many  a  hero  dares  bear  with  wrong — 
Will  laugh  at  wrong  and  will  turn  away ; 
Will  whistle  it  down  the  wind  with  a  song — 
Dares  slay  the  wrong  with  his  splendid  scorn ! 
The  bravest  old  hero  that  ever  was  born ! 

THE  LIGHT  OF  CHRIST'S  FACE 
Behold  how  glorious !  Behold 
The  light  of  Christ's  face ;  and  such  light ! 
The  Moslem,  Buddhist,  as  of  old, 
Gropes  helpless  on  in  hopeless  night. 
But  lo  !  where  Christ  comes,  crowned  with  flame, 
Ten  thousand  triumphs  in  Christ's  name, 
Ten  thousand  triumphs  in  Christ's  name. 

93 


J  O  AQUIN  But  lo!  where  Christ  comes  crowned  with  flame, 
MILLER  Ten  thousand  triumphs  in  Christ's  name, 
Ten  thousand  triumphs  in  Christ's  name. 

Elijah's  chariot  of  fire 
Chained  lightnings  harnessed  to  his  car ! 
Jove's  thunders  bridled  by  a  wire — 
Call  unto  nations  "  here  we  are ! " 
Lo !  all  the  world  one  sea  of  light, 
Save  where  the  Paynim  walks  in  night, 
Lo,  all  the  world  one  sea  of  light, 
Lo,  all  the  world  one  sea  of  light, 
Save  where  the  Paynim  walks  in  night. 
Lo,  all  the  world  one  sea  of  light. 

What  more  ?  What  sermons  like  to  these ; 
This  light  of  Christ's  face,  power,  speed, 
In  these  full  rounded  centuries, 
To  prove  the  Christ,  the  Christ  in  deed  ? 
Yea,  Christ  is  life,  and  Christ  is  light. 
And  anti-Christ  is  death  and  night, 
Yea,  Christ  is  life,  and  Christ  is  light. 
Yea,  Christ  is  life,  and  Christ  is  light, 

94 


And  anti-Christ  is  death  and  night, 
Yea,  Christ  is  life,  and  Christ  is  light. 

OUR  HEROES  OF  TO-DAY 
With  high  face  held  to  her  ultimate  star, 
With  swift  feet  set  to  her  mountains  of  gold, 
This  new-built  world,  where  the  wonders  are, 
She  has  built  new  ways  from  the  ways  of  old. 

Her  builders  of  worlds  are  workers  with  hands; 
Her  true  world-builders  are  builders  of  these, 
The  engines,  the  plows ;  writing  poems  in  sands 
Of  gold  in  our  golden  Hesperides. 

I  reckon  these  builders  as  gods  among  men : 
I  count  them  creators,  creators  who  knew 
The  thrill  of  dominion,  of  conquest,  as  when 
God  set  His  stars  spinning  their  spaces  of  blue. 

A  song  for  the  groove,  and  a  song  for  the  wheel, 
And  a  roaring  song  for  the  rumbling  car; 
But  away  with  the  pomp  of  the  soldier's  steel, 
And  away  forever  with  the  trade  of  war. 

95 


JOAQUIN  The  hero  of  time  is  the  hero  of  thought; 
MILLER  The  hero  who  lives  is  the  hero  of  peace ; 
And  braver  his  battles  than  ever  were 

fought, 
From  Shiloh  back  to  the  battles  of  Greece. 

The  hero  of  heroes  is  the  engineer ; 
The  hero  of  height  and  of  gnome-built  deep, 
Whose  only  fear  is  the  brave  man's  fear 
That  some  one  waiting  at  home  might  weep. 

The  hero  we  love  in  this  land  to-day 

Is  the  hero  who  lightens  some  fellow-man's 
load — 

Who  makes  of  the  mountain  some  pleasant  high 
way; 

Who  makes  of  the  desert  some  blossom-sown 
road. 

Then  hurrah !  for  the  land  of  the  golden  downs, 
For  the  golden  land  of  the  silver  horn ; 
Her  heroes  have  built  her  a  thousand  towns, 
But  never  destroyed  her  one  blade  of  corn. 

96 


FATHER  DAMIEN  JOAQUIN 

The  best  of  all  heroes  that  ever  may  be, 
The  best  and  the  bravest  in  peace  or  in  war 
Since  that  lorn  sad  night  in  Gethsemane — 
Horns  of  the  moon  or  the  five-horned  star? 
Why,  merely  a  Belgian  monk,  and  the  least, 
The  lowliest — merely  a  peasant-born  priest. 

And  how  did  he  fight?  And  where  did  he  fall? 
With  what  did  he  conquer  in  the  name  of  God  ? 
The  cross !  And  he  conquered  more  souls  than  all 
Famed  captains  that  ever  fought  fire-shod. 
Now,  lord  of  the  sapphire-set  sea  and  skies, 
Far  under  his  Southern  gold  Cross  he  lies. 

Far  under  the  fire-sown  path  of  the  sun 
He  sleeps  with  his  lepers ;  but  a  world  is  his ! 
His  great  seas  chorus  and  his  warm  tides  run 
To  dulcet  and  liquid  soft  cadences. 
And,  glories  to  come  or  great  deeds  gone, 
I  'd  rather  be  he  than  Napoleon. 

He  rests  with  his  lepers,  for  whom  he  died ; 

97 


JOAQUIN  The  lorn  outcasts  in  their  cooped  up  isle, 
MILLER  While  Slander  purses  her  lips  in  pride 

And  proud  men  gather  their  robes  and  smile. 
They  mock  at  his  deeds  in  their  daily  talk, 
Deriding  his  work  in  their  Christian  (?)  walk. 

But  the  great  wide,  honest,  the  wise,  big  world ; 

Or  sapphire  splendors  or  midnight  sun, 

It  is  asking  the  while  that  proud  lips  are  curled, 

Why  do  not  ye  as  that  monk  hath  done  ? 

Why  do  not  ye,  if  so  braver  than  he, 

Some  one  brave  deed  that  the  world  might  see? 

LINCOLN  PARK 

Unwalled  it  lies,  and  open  as  the  sun 
When  God  swings  wide  the  dark  doors  of  the 

East. 

Oh,  keep  this  one  spot,  still  keep  this  one, 
Where  tramp  or  banker,  layman  or  high  priest, 
May  equal  meet  before  the  face  of  God : 
Yea,  equals  stand  upon  that  common  sod 
Where  they  shall  one  day  equals  be 
Beneath,  for  aye,  and  all  eternity. 

98 


JOAQUIN  tells  us  "Olive  Leaves"  are  poems  JOAQUIN 
written  in  fulfillment  of  a  promise  made  in  re-  MILLER 
sponse  to  an  appeal  from  his  brother,  "who  fell 
in  battle  front  upon  the  Delaware,"  for  "some 
gentler  things — some  songs  for  Peace.  Mid  all 
your  songs  for  men,  one  song  for  God."   'The 
promise  given,"  he  tells  us,  "The  dark-browed 
mother,  Death,  bent  down  her  face  to  his,  and 
he  was  born  to  Him." 

For  tender  sweetness  and  religious  fervor,  the  fol 
lowing  poems  leave  little  to  be  desired. 

THE  LAST  SUPPER 

And  when  they  had  sung  a  hymn  they  went  out  into  the 
Mount  of  Olives. 

What  song  sang  the  twelve  with  the  Saviour 
When  finished  the  sacrament  wine  ? 
Were  they  bowed  and  subdued  in  behavior, 
Or  bold  as  made  bold  with  a  sign  ? 

Were  the  hairy  breasts  strong  and  defiant  ? 
Were  the  naked  arms  brawny  and  strong  ? 

99 


JOAQUIN  Were  the  bearded  lips  lifted  reliant, 
MILLER  Thrust  forth  and  full  sturdy  with  song? 

What  sang  they?  What  sweet  song  of  Zion 
With  Christ  in  their  midst  like  a  crown  ? 
While  here  sat  Saint  Peter,  the  lion ; 
And  there  like  a  lamb,  with  head  down, 

Sat  Saint  John,  with  his  silken  and  raven 
Rich  hair  on  his  shoulders,  and  eyes 
Lifting  up  to  the  faces  unshaven 
Like  a  sensitive  child's  in  surprise. 

Was  the  song  as  strong  fishermen  swinging 
Their  nets  full  of  hope  to  the  sea  ? 
Or  low,  like  the  ripple  wave  singing 
Sea  songs  on  their  loved  Galilee  ? 

Were  they  sad  with  foreshadow  of  sorrows, 
Like  the  birds  that  sing  low  when  the  breeze 
Is  tip-toe  with  tales  of  to-morrows, — 

Of  earthquakes  and  sinking  of  seas  ? 

100 


Ah !  soft  was  their  song  as  the  waves  are 
That  fall  in  musical  moans; 
And  sad  I  should  say  as  the  winds  are 
That  blow  by  the  white  grave-stones. 

FAITH 

There  were  whimsical  turns  of  the  waters, 
There  were  rhythmical  talks  of  the  sea, 
There  were  gather'd  the  darkest-eyed  daughters 
Of  men,  by  the  deep  Galilee. 

A  blowing  full  sail,  and  a  parting 
From  multitudes,  living  in  Him, 
A  trembling  of  lips  and  tears  starting 
From  eyes  that  look'd  downward  and  dim. 

A  mantle  of  night  and  a  marching 
Of  storms,  and  a  sounding  of  seas, 
Of  furrows  of  foam  and  of  arching 
Black  billows ;  a  bending  of  knees ; 

The  rising  of  Christ — an  entreating — 
Hands  reach'd  to  the  seas  as  he  saith, 

101 


JOAQUIN  "Have  Faith!"  And  all  seas  are  repeating, 
MILLER  "Have  Faith!  Have  Faith!  Have  Faith!" 

HOPE 

What  song  is  well  sung  not  of  sorrow  ? 
What  triumph  well  won  without  pain  ? 
What  virtue  shall  be,  and  not  borrow 
Bright  luster  from  many  a  stain  ? 

What  birth  has  there  been  without  travail  ? 
What  battle  well  won  without  blood  ? 
What  good  shall  earth  see  without  evil 
Ingarner'd  as  chaff  with  the  good  ? 

Lo !  the  Cross  set  in  rocks  by  the  Roman, 
And  nourish'd  by  blood  of  the  Lamb, 
And  water'd  by  tears  of  the  woman, 
Has  flourish'd,  has  spread  like  a  palm ; 

Has  spread  in  the  frosts,  and  far  regions 
Of  snows  in  the  North,  and  South  sands, 
Where  never  the  tramp  of  his  legions 
Was  heard,  or  reached  forth  his  red  hands. 

102 


Be  thankful;  the  price  and  the  payment,  JOAQUIN 

The  birth,  the  privations  and  scorn,  MILLER 

The  cross,  and  the  parting  of  raiment 
Are  finish'd.  The  star  brought  us  morn. 

Look  starward ;  stand  far  and  unearthy, 
Free  soul'd  as  a  banner  unfurl'd. 
Be  worthy,  O  brother,  be  worthy ! 
For  a  God  was  the  price  of  the  world. 

CHARITY 

Her  hands  were  clasped  downward  and  doubled, 
Her  head  was  held  down  and  depressed, 
Her  bosom,  like  white  billows  troubled, 
Fell  fitful  and  rose  in  unrest ; 

Her  robes  were  all  dust,  and  disorder'd 
Her  glory  of  hair,  and  her  brow, 
Her  face,  that  had  lifted  and  lorded, 
Fell  pallid  and  passionless  now. 

She  heard  not  accusers  that  brought  her 
In  mockery  hurried  to  Him, 

103 


JOAQUIN  Nor  heeded,  nor  said,  nor  besought  her 
MILLER  With  eyes  lifted  doubtful  and  dim. 

All  crush'd  and  stone-cast  in  behavior, 
She  stood  as  a  marble  would  stand, 
Then  the  Saviour  bent  down,  and  the  Saviour 
In  silence  wrote  on  in  the  sand. 

What  wrote  He  ?  How  fondly  one  lingers 
And  questions,  what  holy  command 
Fell  down  from  the  beautiful  fingers 
Of  Jesus,  like  gems  in  the  sand. 

O  better  the  scion  uncherished 
Had  died  ere  a  note  or  device 
Of  battle  was  fashion'd,  than  perish'd 
This  only  line  written  by  Christ. 

He  arose  and  look'd  on  the  daughter 

Of  Eve,  like  a  delicate  flower, 

And  He  heard  the  revilers  that  brought  her; 

Men  stormy,  and  strong  as  a  tower. 

104 


And  He  said,  "  She  has  sinned ;  let  the  blame-      J  O  A  Q  U I N 

less  MILLER 

Come  forward  and  cast  the  first  stone!" 
But  they,  they  fled  shamed  and  yet  shameless ; 
And  she,  she  stood  white  and  alone. 

Who  now  shall  accuse  and  arraign  us  ? 
What  man  shall  condemn  and  disown  ? 
Since  Christ  has  said  only  the  stainless 
Shall  cast  at  his  fellows  a  stone. 

For  what  man  can  bare  us  his  bosom, 
And  touch  with  his  fore-finger  there, 
And  say,  '  'Tis  as  snow,  as  a  blossom"? 
Beware  of  the  stainless,  beware ! 

O  woman,  born  first  to  believe  us ; 
Yea,  also  born  first  to  forget ; 
Born  first  to  betray  and  deceive  us ; 
Yet  first  to  repent  and  regret ! 

O  first  then  in  all  that  is  human, 
Yea !  first  where  the  Nazarene  trod, 

105 


J  O  A  Q  U I N  O  woman !  O  beautiful  woman, 
MILLER  Be  then  first  in  the  Kingdom  of  God! 

BEYOND  JORDAN 

And  they  came  to  him,  mothers  of  Judah, 
Dark  eyed  and  in  splendor  of  hair, 
Bearing  down  over  shoulders  of  beauty, 
And  bosoms  half  hidden,  half  bare ; 

They  brought  him  their  babes  and  besought  him 
Half  kneeling,  with  suppliant  air, 
To  bless  the  brown  cherubs  they  brought  him, 
With  holy  hands  laid  in  their  hair. 

Then  reaching  his  hands  he  said  lowly, 
"  Of  such  is  my  Kingdom  " ;  and  then 
Took  little  brown  babes  in  the  holy 
White  hands  of  the  Saviour  of  men ; 

Held  them  close  to  his  heart  and  caress'd  them, 
Put  his  face  down  to  theirs  as  in  prayer, 
Put  their  hands  to  his  neck,  and  so  blessed  them, 
With  baby  hands  hid  in  his  hair. 

106 


SO  HERE  ENDETH  JOAQUIN  MILLER  &  GEORGE 
WHARTON  JAMES,  AS  DONE  INTO  A  BOOK  BY 
THE  ROYCROFTERS  AT  THEIR  SHOP  WHICH  IS 
IN  EAST  AURORA,  N.  Y.,  OCTOBER,  A.  D.  MCMIII. 


ROYCROFT 


14  OAY 

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